


don’t panic

by Catzzy



Series: Hurt Peter Parker [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Protective May Parker (Spider-Man), Tony Stark Has A Heart, some violence, we love may
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-03-19 22:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18979609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catzzy/pseuds/Catzzy
Summary: “What’s your problem?”“You.Youare my problem, Peter. I see a future together with May, andyou’renot in it.”His chest feels funny. “She didn’t say that.”A scoff. “It’s kinda like talking to that one lonely kid in the class who no one likes because you feel bad for them,” he purses his lips and tilts his head in a mockingly sympathetic way, “that’s how she describes you. You probably…feel it sometimes, no? That she feels forced into this?”(May’s boyfriend trope)





	1. seventy-nine

He only realizes what he’s been doing weeks after he starts doing it. And even then, it’s only when Ned points it out. 

 

“I think you’re jealous,” Ned jokes harmlessly, and Peter stares at him with a half-smile, which fades quickly when he realizes.

 

He looks away, trying to think of a reason _why_. Why is he out the house and why does his mind come up with the shittiest excuses to justify it? 

 

Easy. Peter doesn’t like him very much, and that person doesn’t like Peter very much and isn’t afraid to show it. _Avoiding people who don’t like you isn’t a bad thing_ , he thinks.

 

“Yeah, maybe,” he laughs anyway, and Ned doesn’t bring it up again. Maybe he senses the awkwardness, or maybe Ned sees nothing. May doesn’t either, so it’s not a big deal. But now that he’s sitting here, he kind of wishes Ned would’ve pressed it further. 

 

He definitely won’t bring it up unprompted, which is why they continue messing around on YouTube and homework and Legos until the evening comes to an end.

 

“I’ll see you later,” Ned says after they finish putting things away and walk to the door. 

 

Peter nods, giving him a small wave as he walks out. 

 

He doesn’t want to go home. He just stands at the steps for a good few minutes, trying to think of other places he could go at eight in the evening. The options are unlimited. He could go to a café and finish homework, or patrol, or call MJ and swing around the roofs while he does.

 

But then May worries. And it’s what makes him turn the way to his apartment, head down and mind racing, preparing for it. May worrying too much means Max gets involved, and that’s the very thing he’s trying to avoid.

 

By the time he reaches, the sun is still setting, and he makes his way upstairs begrudgingly, almost all out of energy by the time he reaches the front door. 

 

_Don’t panic._

 

He takes out his key and pushes it in to unlock the door. He’s instantly hit with the smell of cooking. And for once, it smells not burnt. 

 

There’s laughter coming from the kitchen, and maybe if he avoids them and walks straight—

 

“Peter! Come here and taste!” May yells from the distant as he takes his shoes off. He smiles and walks through, “baby, come here,” she says, and he has to try and not make eye contact with the man standing besides her.

 

“I just ate at Ned’s,” he tells her, “kinda full.” It’s not a lie. It’s actually the whole truth. He _is_ full, and she makes a face when he tells her.

 

“Peter can try it in the morning,” Max says, and for the time being, he looks genuinely nice. “How was your day?”

 

Peter shrugs, “yeah, good, pretty great,” he says. “I’m gonna head to bed. Kinda tired. Sorry, May.”

 

“That’s okay,” May tells him, smiling as she takes out two plates. They go back to chatting, laughing and telling jokes. May isn’t the hardest person to make laugh, but Ned might be right. He feels a little jealous. This used to be their time. 

 

He turns around and makes his way to his room. He throws his bag next to the door and closes the door, sighing as he lays back on his bed. He could go patrolling. 

 

He really spaces out, because when he opens his eyes again, he can see Max standing at the door with his backpack in his hands. He’s zipping it open as Peter sits up. He gets up but Max shoots him a look, so he sits back down, heart thudding against his chest.

 

Max flips through his things, “you got your test back today. May got an email,” he says casually, and then pulls the first set of white pages he sees so hard that Peter thinks he’s ripped them. The bag falls to the ground, and he flicks through the pages. “79. You know 79 isn’t getting you into the top colleges. _79_ isn’t getting you scholarships,” Max starts.

 

Peter keeps his head down. Nothing he says is going to make a difference. It’ll instantly be seen as a stupid “excuse” and just get him into more trouble. 

 

Max stares at him, and Peter can feel the glare boring holes into him, “fractions. You can’t subtract fractions, Peter? Stupid. A six-year old could do this.”

 

Peter looks up, ashamed, “it was—I just didn’t show the working out properly so—”

 

“What’d I say about excuses? It’s your last year and this is what you’re doing? Let me tell you,” Max starts as he takes a seat on a chair, “the colleges aren’t going to give a shit about whether you missed a mark here and missed a mark there. What is this?”

 

He doesn’t look up again. He feels too humiliated. Also, he can’t tell if it’s a rhetorical question, so he keeps his mouth shut.

 

“To think this is what May works for. So you can run around being an idiot.”

 

He keeps his fists clenched so hard that he can feel the crescents he’s digging into his palms, which Max notices, because he lowers his head to see Peter’s and frowns. 

 

“I’m sorry. Am I making you angry?”

 

Peter shakes his head reluctantly. God, he wants to run away. 

 

Finally, May comes. She stands at the door with a hesitant smile plastered on her face as she observes the dead atmosphere. “What’s going on?” She asks, playful fear in her tone. “Things sound serious.”

 

“Peter got a seventy-nine.”

 

“That’s great!” May says, the tone of her voice completely out of place in the dreadful atmosphere that Max has conjured up.

 

“Not great enough for a scholarship or help. Just telling him to step it up,” Max tells her. “He needs to understand how competitive and serious—”

 

“It’s okay,” May says, kind of defensively, and she sits down next to him, putting her hand on his back. “He knows. He’ll be okay. Right, baby? Seventy-nine is amazing. I never got past the seventies, and I turned out great.”

 

Peter smiles as he looks to her.

 

But if he had to visualize how embarrassing this whole thing was, he’d say he was one step away from jumping off a building. He didn’t need her defending him, or Max berating him. Or her babying him, which he can tell right now will come up in a future one-to-one with the man.

 

“No, sorry,” he says anyway, “sorry, it won’t happen again,” he tells them both.

 

May seems unfazed by a stupid _seventy-nine_ , like she always is every time she catches them in a conversation. That’s because she always misses the first part. 

 

“Let’s go,” she says as she stands, nodding to Max, who gets up and leaves first. She pops her head back in and smiles, “it’s great,” she says quietly, “don’t listen to him.”

 

He smiles back at her. Maybe he should forge the next one, to avoid _this_ from happening again. 

 

He’s about to lay back down when the door opens again. He half expects it to be May, but it’s not. “And clean up this mess. God, it’s like that upper portion isn’t working nowadays,” Max scolds, a disgusted look on his face.

 

Peter looks down at his bag, which seems to be the only thing he can see on the floor. Then, Max is gone. He decides to leave the bag, counting on Max not returning for the night. That’s the maximum number of lectures reached for today.

 

When he has kids, or meets kids, he definitely won’t be like that, Peter decides. Morgan likes him. He must be better if she does. She’s too young to lie.

 

He lays back, staring at the ceiling. He rolls his head to the side and shoots a web to the door, bridging it to the wall. Then, he reaches in his pocket and takes out his mask.

 

Pulling it over his head, he closes his eyes with a sigh. “Cheer me up, Karen.”

 

“ _I can tell you a joke. Knock, knock._ ” 

 

Peter frowns, “nope, please don’t,” he says jokingly. 

 

“ _You seem sad._ ”

 

“I didn’t do well in my test,” Peter answers.

 

“ _You usually don’t get so upset over that,_ ” Karen notes. “ _Was it a special test?_ ”

 

Peter grunts, “ _no_ , but I got a _special_ telling off this time,” he admits. He sounds like he’s whining, but he can, right? No one will ever hear this. And Karen’s the only one he can talk to.

 

“ _I’m sorry, Peter. By who?_ ”

 

“Max,” Peter says in a whisper. “But he’s right. I need to get them up. My grades.”

 

“ _Then it seems like he’s only trying to encourage you,_ ” Karen tells him energetically. 

 

Peter doesn’t disagree. “Yeah, maybe.”


	2. he loves her

On Monday night, Max asks Peter to stay out a little late if he wants, because he wants to spend more time with May _alone_.

 

“ _Alone. Wonder what they’re doing right now_.”

 

Peter grimaces, “you guys are gross and I’m ending the call,” he jokes as he crouches on the roof.

 

“ _Peter once got grossed out when Happy opened the car door for May,_ ” Ned says, and they both start laughing.

 

Peter rolls his eyes as he settles on the ledge, “no, I didn’t,” he says defensively, “they both gave each other weird looks!”

 

He’s met with an awkward silence and the sound of Ned trying not to laugh.

 

He tries to explain himself. “It was the looks! It’s not the car—”

 

MJ interrupts him, “ _you know when he says it like that, I actually like feel that Oprah gif when she lifts up her hands. Ned, you know the one—_ ”

 

“ _Oh my God, yes!_ ” Ned says loudly, and they start laughing and squealing again.

 

Peter shakes his head, “you guys are officially the worst,” he says playfully. But Happy would’ve been way better than Max, he thinks. Or would he? Maybe he’d just never settle with May moving on .

 

“ _I finally finished Brooklyn 99. Good show,_ ” MJ says afterwards.

 

“ _Oh my God. Tell me you’re not Rosa now,_ ” Ned says excitedly, and then they all hear Ned’s mom speak in the background, “ _yeah, just like twenty minutes! Pangako!_

 

“ _Time for Ned to go to bed,_ ” MJ jokes, “and if I’m Rosa, that makes you Boyle.”

 

Ned gasps in mocking pain, “ _no, no, I’m not Boyle!_ ” 

 

Peter laughs, “ _that makes me Jake,_ ” he says quickly, “ _and come on, Ned, everyone loves Boyle, you said it yourself._ ” 

 

Ned gives them a fake laugh, “ _ha, ha, okay, whatever, that was only to watch. I’m not Boyle. You guys took the cool ones._ ” 

 

Peter scales on the side of an abandoned building and huffs a laugh, “Boyle is Jake’s guy in the chair, so technically, it’s gotta be you,” he says.

 

“ _Um, since when? The only reason I’d remotely agree to that is because they’re best friends_ ,” Ned says, sighing. “ _Oh my—Mom! Take her out of my room!_ ”

 

“ _Ned’s household saga never seem to end,_ ” MJ says in an observant tone.

 

“ _Peter, you’re blood pressure is getting a little low,_ ” Karen says out of nowhere, and the numbers flash in front of him for a quick few seconds before receding into the corner of the HUD.

Peter squints, “I don’t feel it.”

“ _You will when you drop off the building, go home and eat,_ ” MJ instructs, and Ned agrees in there somewhere before he goes back to yelling at his sister.

“ _I gotta go guys,_ ” Ned says a minute later, and they say bye to him as he hangs up. 

There’s a moment of silence when Ned leaves, but MJ speaks first.

“ _Peter, you really okay with Max?_ ” she asks out of nowhere, an undertone of worry in her tone. “ _You’re at a like multitasking level one-hundred_.”

 

Peter frowns, “what?”

“ _Leaving because he told you to, talking to us like everything’s fine, Spider-Manning like everything’s fine, ignoring that you’re clearly hungry, ignoring you’re low blood pressure,_ ” she explains, and it sounds like she’s had the list ready for either a while, or that this is just on the top of her head. Kind of wishes he hadn’t asked.

He shrugs, even though she’s not there to see it. “I’m fine, MJ, promise,” he says to her assuringly. “You don’t need to worry.”

She scoffs, “obviously I need to worry. You’re off these days. I noticed.”

 

Of course she noticed. She notices everything, especially when he doesn’t want her to. It’s kind of stupid to think she wouldn’t, considering she figured out by herself that he was Spider-Man.

“I don’t _like_ him, but that doesn’t mean he’s bad,” Peter mumbles, ending up back on the roof. He’s too distracted to go back down. He doesn’t want to move anymore.

MJ hums in appreciation, “ _you know, before my Dad got custody of me, I used to live with my mom. She crashed hard, and she said all these…stupid things. All the time. I ignored them, because I knew she loved me. But then my Dad came, and he said…_.” She trails off.

 

Peter’s invested. He wants to know. “What’d he say?”

“ _People who love you don’t hurt you. They don’t willingly hurt you,_ ” she says, and he hears her voice crack. “ _Sounds cheesy, but I never forgot._ ” He wants to be there with her right now. 

__

__

He thinks about it. “It doesn’t. Sound cheesy, I mean. But May would never—“ 

_“ _But would he? Imagine someone telling you they love you but then they hurt May. Or me, still telling you that they love you._ ”_

He loves them both. He doesn’t know what he’d do. “MJ—“ 

_“ _You trust me, right_?”_

“Yeah,” he says as quiet as he possibly can. “Of course I do.” 

_“ _Then promise me that if this guy ever makes you upset or does anything, you’ll tell me. Or May. Anyone around you,_ ” she pleads softly. _

__

__

“Alright,” he says, then sighs, “but you’re overreacting. That’s just your soft side getting out,” he teases, and laughs when she mimics what he says in a deep voice. 

_“ _Alright, listen, it’s like nine-fifty. I’ll call—I’ll see you tomorrow,_ ” she says. _

__

__

Then, she’s gone too. He looks at his watch and realises he’s kind of stayed past how long he intended too. 

When he gets home, the lights are switched on, but he can’t hear any talking or laughing, just one heartbeat. The footsteps from the other end get louder, and he sees Max appear from around the corner. 

“Hi—hey, what’s—where’s May?” He asks, looking behind and around, and he doesn’t even know why his eyes are still desperately searching for because he can tell they’re the only ones in here. 

“Outside,’ he says simply. “Where were _you_?” 

Peter frowns and quickly looks down, patting down his phone. He takes it out and grimaces. “Man, I’m—it’s like always on silent and you said just stay out so I lost track—“ 

“Oh. Now it’s my fault that you’re two hours late. It’s my fault you can’t follow curfew or answer the phone. What _can_ you do right, Peter?” 

 

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“One night, I asked for,” Max says, annoyed, then mutters “one fucking night,” under his breath a he turns his head in what looks like rage. 

The curse sends him a step back. Gosh. Man. He’s so, so embarrassed right now, he could die. How did he mess this up? How did he mess up staying out? 

“All I asked was for you to come home late, and you can’t even do that right,” he shakes his head and looks at him in sheer anger. 

When he approaches, Peter moves back. 

“Relax, I’m not gonna kill you,” he snaps sarcastically as he nears. He lifts his hand and his senses warn him, but he stays still as the hand lands roughly on the back of his neck, blunt nails threatening to break the skin as he tries to not move. The other hand tightly grips his shoulder. 

For a second, Peter forgets to breathe. They just stare at each other and he feels tears forming, which he desperately tries to keep back by clenching his jaw as tightly as he can. 

If he wanted to, he could get out, he tells himself. He definitely could. He’s not in trouble yet though, he tried to reason, even though his senses are starting to go a little haywire. 

“You’re spoilt,” Max says, and he pulls Peter’s towards him abruptly, “and I need you to know that all this stupidity and years of youth play you have going on — it’s all over.” 

His breath hitches as he looks into the man’s wild eyes. So much anger, and he’s listening, but he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong this time. 

“You test me again, and you watch. You see what happens. I want you to start acting like your age. She doesn’t need to be worrying about you, you’re not a kid.” 

Then Max lets go with a jerk, and he barely listens to him leave when he leans back against the wall. 

He’s doing something wrong. He keeps getting it _wrong_ and he doesn’t know how to stop, or what to do. He rubs his forehead and gets to his room before they can come back. 

_what can you do right?_ clearly nothing with the rate that he’s going at. 

He throws his bag across the floor and shuts the door behind himself, cheeks flushed and palms sticky. 

It’s a new feeling racking through him that he doesn’t think he’s felt before. It makes feel sick, and he quickly remembers that the last time he came anywhere near to this state was the car with Liz’s dad. Why? Why. 

He knows why. It’s because both times, he knew that that they were two different people. Adrian Toomes was an arm’s dealer, but he was also Liz’s dad. Surprisingly, it was the second part that scared him. He could’ve gone missing that night, killed by a silencer in the back of his date’s car, and no one would even think of Toomes. 

Max hates him. _But he loves May. He loves May. He’s not so bad. He loves her._

He’s jittery, and suddenly feels like he can’t stand, so he sits down by the wall on the floor, hands gripping the carpet in a subconscious attempt to keep himself grounded. 

He inhales sharply, and hears the strangled gasp that escapes his mouth when he does. It’s not the footsteps and heartbeats that he hears now, but the sound of his own heart thudding loudly and blood gushing in his ears. 

Doesn’t realise he’s on the verge of a breakdown until he sniffles and sees his hands tremble when he lifts them up. 

__Nothing happened. Nothing happened._ _

He hears someone return, and sighs in relief because the footsteps are too gentle to be Max’s. He lifts his head in case she walks in, but it shakes, and there’re still tears and the heat all mixing together to probably make him look like he’s just emerged from hell. 

He puts his head down between his knees. Breathe. _Breathe, breathe, breathe._

There’s a light knock on his door, and May’s opening it slowly before he can talk. He doesn’t want to talk yet. 

“Hey, hi, I—I missed you. I was just outside—“ she blows air through her cheeks and calls his name, “what’s wrong, honey?” 

Then, he can feel her hands on his back as his uneven breaths get even louder. She runs her fingers through his hair, and pulls him towards her. He’s in her arms. He feels good. Feels safe. 

“Easy. Slowly. In and out. It’s alright, baby, just breathe,” she says softly. 

It takes him longer than usual to calm down. When he does, he just buries himself into her, and feels her arms cover him. 

“What happened?” 

He shrugs in her hold, “just—just bad day.” 

“As Spider-Man? Or as Peter?” 

“Both, I guess,” he says. “Why were you outside?” He asks when she doesn’t say anything else. If it was because of him, she’d be long into her lecture about safety and responsibility right now. 

She sighs, “nothing. No reason,” she gives him a smile, “how were the streets? Did you eat? You probably burnt through it already, come on, there’s food—“ 

He rolls his eyes as he sits up, “I did, May. Don’t worry about me,” he says. 

She doesn’t come inside often. The place is small, and shouting across the rooms works just fine for both of them. 

“What do you think about him? Max. I know he’s not...he’s been here for a few months, now. You know him a little. How is he with you?” 

He considers telling her what he _really_ thinks. But then, he can’t word it properly. What does he think? Max hasn’t done anything ‘wrong’. Telling him he wanted some quality time with May and to get his grades up and come back home on time aren’t things he can complain about. And he’s definitely not going to mention the hands. Besides, it didn’t hurt. 

He knows that if he does tell her, she’ll listen to him. She’ll do that for him if she thinks it’ll keep _him_ happy and safe. But he doesn’t need her to do that for him. He can keep himself safe. He can do that for her now. 

__what can you do right?_ _

So he shrugs. “I think he cares about you a lot.” 

It’s not the answer she’s looking for. “But with you. How is he with you?” 

“Fine. He’s fine,” he says, scratching at his phone case. 

“Sure? He didn’t say anything to you just now?” 

“No, just told me to keep my phone on,” he says, which is kind of true, “didn’t say why you were outside.” 

“Nothing. I got—“ she stops again. “He said something I didn’t like, I got upset. I didn’t think you’d be home, I was just by the stairs.” He can tell she’s trying not to get him involved with any of her fights. 

She always told him about Ben. 

“Oh,” he says. It’s all he can say. He doesn’t really want to know what it’s about anyway. It sounds selfish even to him, but he doesn’t want to know about her and Max’s problems. 

When May and Ben ever fought, which like all married couples they often did, it was usually Ben and Peter who reconciled with her. Ben told Peter to go in to their room and tell her to come outside, where Ben would be holding flowers, or a wrapped gift, or chocolates. And it was Ben coming up with excuses to tell Peter to tell May to take him somewhere, and just the car journey and having to listen to Ben’s really bad jokes would be enough to get them talking again. 

And in the past, when he’d remember Ben, he would tell May. And suddenly, he can’t anymore. Now, it’ll be awkward to bring him up when the thing making him remember Ben is the guy who is trying to replace him. 

May would never say that. He’s heard her say it millions of times before, and he’s sure she’ll say it again that “ _no one’s replacing Ben_ ”, and he can’t argue against that even if that’s exactly how he feels. 

“He’s just upset for no reason,” her eyes widen sadly and she shakes her head as if she’s talking about a child rather than the grown man that Max is. “Okay. Good he didn’t say anything to you,” she nods, standing up. 

She leaves, and Peter kind of hates himself—scratch that. He _really_ hates himself for not bringing anything up yet mentally complaining to himself the whole time. It was his chance. Maybe his one chance to stop her from taking this further than it already was. 

Curfew and good grades. He can do that. It’s doable. His mistakes are fixable. Everything he’s doing wrong is fixable, and he can do this. He can get by. 

The next day, he spots MJ between first and second period. Ned’s nowhere to be seen. 

“How was it?” MJ asks, “were the adults happy with date night?” She teases, resting against the lockers as he takes his books out. 

He looks at her and then away. “He was—he was still upset,” he says, because he does want to tell her everything and be assured that he’s doing something right. And also, lying doesn’t seem to be getting him anywhere. 

She tenses and stands up straight by the lockers. “What did he say?” She asks, forehead creasing into a frown. 

“I don’t know, he was like ‘answer your phone’ and—“ he doesn’t want to say the rest, because it kind of, sort of, makes him feel guilty. But this is MJ. “And ‘can you do anything right?’” His voice makes him sound like a typical child complaining, and he tries not to think about the dread that last night’s two minute conversation brought him, and which still seems to be hanging over him like grey clouds. 

“What a dick,” MJ says as she leans back against the lockers. “Did you tell May?” 

“I told her about… _no_. No, I didn’t tell her. He didn’t do anything.” 

She looks away, but there isn’t a hint of judgement on her face. He knows that’s only because of what she told him about her mom last night. “Will you? If he says something rude to you again? Aunt May would want to know.” 

“ _If_ he’s rude. That wasn’t rude. He was just saying to answer my phone and not be careless,” he counters. Stupid. He hates that he’s defending the guy, and for what? 

MJ looks at him and leans forwards, taking his forearm, “you promised.” 

He looks her in the eyes, big and filled with worry and a distant fear, “I will, MJ,” he assures her, because he doesn’t like it when she worries. 

The rest of the school day is the same, and he avoids saying anything else to do with Max to his two, over concerned friends. They’re over exaggerating, he thinks. 

They worry too much. And they make it seem like a bigger deal than it actually is. 

But he dreads the end of the day. The last place he wants to be is home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reading and rewriting a bajillion times takes a toll on my proofreading skills!!
> 
> also yes it got posted twice because I messed up the italics in the first one 
> 
>  
> 
> thanks for reading :)


	3. Ben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some violence👀

BREAK

“I think he’s on edge lately,” Tony says out loud when Happy’s late again. “Jittery, kind of...jumpy. Says sorry a lot.” 

 

Pepper narrows her eyes, considering it for a second, “it’s kind of his signature word,” she says. That’s not it. 

 

“But like he’s overdoing it, right? You haven’t noticed?” 

 

“He’s an amazingly kind kid,” she says, shrugging, “ask him, if you’re worried. I don’t spend enough time with him to notice things like that,” she says, swiping through her phone.

 

“Right. And since we’re brainstorming, _what_ do I say?”

 

She puts her phone down and closes her eyes. “What would you say to yourself? He’s like a carbon copy of you.”

 

“Is that a compliment? ‘Coz I’ll take it.”

 

“It clearly is not. Remember after the kidnapping, and then Stane. Even 2012. I asked you. I bothered you, we even broke up, and you told me nothing. Took you years to let me even say those words without—without clamming up.”

 

He bites his lower lip and realizes she’s right. He dealt with all of those separate but equally terrifying things by himself, even when she was right there like an angel in disguise. But he didn’t take it. And now that he’s thinking about it, there was no good or even remotely rational reason to do that.

 

“I told you everything eventually,” he counters, eyebrows raised. 

 

“Hmm, more than ten years after the fact. Does that count? I don’t think so. You can wait for Peter to tell you when you’re seventy. See how it feels.”

 

He moves back in mocking shock, “ _seventy_? I’m not that old. You know I’m not that old, right?” He asks, getting up after her when she turns to leave.

 

“I’m tired, Tony, I’m going to bed,” she tells him as she opens the door. “And honestly, he’s probably just tired. It’s exam season, he’s trying to keep his grades up, it’s teenager stuff.”

 

He trails right behind, “it’s three in the afternoon, but back to my thing, we know I’m in the really early fifties, right? Like just turned—”

 

“Your daughter was sick the whole night, I have better things to do than guess your age.” 

 

“ _Our_ daughter. Could’ve woken me up, and we’re not _guessing_ because I just told you!”

 

“Next time I’ll use cold water, since Friday didn’t wake you. Funny how that works. Always up and about when you need to do something.”

 

He smirks as she disappears around the corner. She didn’t answer his question.

 

“ _Mr Hogan is downstairs with Peter,_ ” Friday says softly, and he straightens his head and nods.

 

“Right. On it,” he says, making his way down. The elevator takes him to the private lobby. “You’re late,” he says as soon as the doors open and Happy appears, looking right at him like he has a third eye. “And that could’ve been anyone on the elevator who you would’ve scared off with that murder glare.”

 

Happy squints, “ _he_ was late. Besides, it’s not like you were here waiting.”

 

“I wasn’t here waiting, because you were late.”

 

“Well, tell it to him. He didn’t even wanna come. Had to stand there and tell him I didn’t drive two hours for nothing.”

 

Tony narrows his eyes, “am I hearing that right? Or have my ears finally given up?” He taps his ear gently twice as he turns to Peter.

 

Peter groans, “no, I was just…tired, and that’s what I told Happy.”

 

“And now he’s lying because he told _me_ he had career day or something,” Happy adds, “I gotta go. You can decipher the rest.”

 

“That I definitely will. See ya, Hap,” he says, nodding his head to the elevator and prompting Peter to follow, which he does. “So, what really kept you behind?”

 

“Options evening,” Peter reveals, and he doesn’t seem happy about it. “It’s why I was tired,” he adds in.

 

They step into the elevator. “Nice save. What happened at options evening?”

 

“Nothing,” Peter says dejectedly. 

 

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” he presses. And he’s really trying to seem casual about everything. Just make it seem like he’s not worried at all - just making conversation.

 

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugs.

 

“So is it nothing or you don’t know?”

 

Peter sighs. “Both. Mr Harrison was saying I gotta keep my grades up for Decathlon, which they are! It’s one, stupid, seventy-nine, and no one’s letting it go.”

 

Tony looks to him, “who isn’t letting it go?”

 

“I need eighties and a good essay to get to where I want.”

 

“Alright. Knew that. Who’s bothering you about it?”

 

“The teachers. And—I mean, it’s not ‘bothering’, they just want me to do well. And at home, I guess Max was saying I should try harder. May and Max—”

 

“—sounds like a sitcom,” Tony says in an attempt to lighten the mood, and to think about the fact that a random guy was telling Peter that a 79 wasn’t good enough. “They been spending a lot of time together?”

 

They’re at the lab by the time he’s asking his question. They both step out, and Peter gives him a shrug in place of a response again.

 

“Yes? No?”

 

“I guess. He’s there a lot,” he pauses and looks to Tony, “sometimes even when _she’s_ not,” he says firmly.

 

Tony hums in response, “that bother you? Seems like it’s up there on your list of dislikes. Just below lemons. Maybe above peppermint oil.”

 

Peter sits down, almost sinks into his chair as he looks up with half a smile, “okay, that’s only because the smell is like putting your face in bleach,” he says.

 

“To you. Normal people don’t compare lemons to bleach, kid,” he says, earning a small laugh from Peter. “But she likes him, right? Because if this is something you’re not happy—”

 

“Ah, no. I’m fine. I like that she’s happy. Losing—” Peter freezes for a second, “losing Ben was hard for her,” Peter says quietly, nodding to himself as if he’s trying to convince himself.

 

Tony takes his seat and faces him. Perceptive little guy. “Just on her?”

 

Peter doesn’t answer. It reminds him that he still doesn’t know what exactly happened to Ben, other than May telling him that her nephew has a wall of guilt build around Ben’s name. “You sound like my therapist,” Peter jokes.

 

Tony only purses his lips and cocks his head with a frown. It’s the jokingly trying-to-avoid-this-conversation tactic, which he’s mastered. Hell, he created it.

 

Peter’s been avoiding eye contact, he notices. The answers have all been short, one-worded and as vague as possible. He takes it at his cue to back up. He isn’t a therapist. And Peter clearly doesn’t want to talk. He can try again later.

 

“Ben was…you know how he died,” Peter says out of nowhere. 

 

“May might’ve mentioned it,” he answers.

 

“I ran away that night. We had a dumb fight and I ran out. He came after me to get me to come back. I was just—I turned into the alley between the two apartments for some reason,” he looks down, and it’s not hurt on his face, it’s guilt and shame. 

 

“He was just standing there, and he took twenty dollars out and was like ‘let’s go get ice cream, come on,’ and I was being—so annoying, and they—they just came from behind,” he frowns with a heavy sigh.

 

Tony moves forwards on his chair, then gets up and kneels down in front of Peter as he stares intensely at his shoelaces. “That—it wasn’t on you.”

 

“He fell back so hard. And everything was…it was ringing in my ears and just blank. And he was on the floor. He was only there because of me. That’s on me.”

 

“Peter—“

 

“You always say when I do something wrong that whatever happens, it’s on you, right?” Tony doesn’t get a chance to interrupt. “Well that night—that was on _me_. It was _my_ fault. And I can help all these people but it won’t bring him back.”

 

“Listen to me,” he snaps his fingers and gets Peter’s eyes on him, “hey, kids do that. They run away. They do stupid things. It’s what makes them kids. You were fourteen. You couldn’t have stopped them.”

 

“It’s—“

 

It hurts that this is what he has bottled up inside for the past two years. A literal murder that shouldn’t be on his conscious.

 

“Bad things happen, kid. And more times than not, they’re not your fault. They can’t be. What happened to Ben was just one of them,” he says softly. “And it’s normal to miss him.”

 

It’s normal, he thinks. Ben, who he’s never met, was a great uncle. Scratch that, more like his dad. Someone trying to replace your dad would never go down well with anyone. And Peter’s an especially sensitive kid. 

 

“Wanna see your upgrade? It’s going good. Think I can use that cheer you up?” 

 

His mentee nods with a tired smile. Or maybe glad that he’s out of the conversation. Either way, soon enough, Peter starts with the science talk. And he has to move on from the fact that sharing doesn’t come easy to Peter.

 

They work for a few hours. They take more breaks than they need to and talk about the most useless things. 

 

When the final conversation ends with the many controversies surrounding time travel, Peter stands up abruptly. “Shit.”

 

“Hey,” Tony says instantly, eyes on the specs on the screen. 

 

“Sorry, sorry. I gotta get home.”

 

Tony glances at the time in the corner. “Ms Parker won’t mind. Besides, I’m dropping you off.”

 

“It takes two hours to get there from here,” Peter says. “You live in the middle of like nowhere.”

 

Tony narrows his eyes, “it’s by the river, _in_ the city, first of all. And secondly, you can take a suit.”

 

“I _am_ taking my suit.”

 

“Iron Man suit.”

 

“No, I can’t. It’s—that—I can’t!”

 

“Sure you can,” Tony tells him, spinning around. “You know if you wanted to, you could get home in under ten seconds with a suit. Just don’t mess around with anything in there.”

 

“What if I get sick? That’s way too fast.”

 

“Then you can have it dry cleaned before you send it back.”

 

“Mr Stark, I’m—”

 

“Friday, activate forty-seven.”

 

“Someone could see me,” Peter argues. 

 

“It’ll drop you off on the roof. It’ll be stealth mode. No one will see anything, right Fri?”

 

“ _Yes, boss._ ”

* * *

Peter ends up agreeing, only because he really _has_ to get home before ten. He’s already missed the first unofficial curfew. And come to think about it, probably the second.

 

The suit drops him at the roof, and when he stays there for a few seconds. “Okay. It’s okay,” he says, taking in big breaths as he steps out, “tell Mr Stark thanks, Friday.”

 

The suit is already halfway up into the sky when he turns back around. “Actually kill me,” he says, shaking his head and pulling open the rusty old door. 

 

He gets to the top floor, then starts to make his way down. Taking an elevator would be faster, but he doesn’t have any particular interest in speeding up his shitty night. He takes his time, but still ends up on his floor in just a few minutes.

 

When he cautiously opens the door, kind of—scratch that, _really_ , really hoping that May and Max are out, he’s met with a very disappointed face. Max’s.

 

“You know what time it is?”

 

He doesn’t have to look down at his watch, because he knows, but he does it anyway, just so he can avoid any eye contact. “I was—” he doesn’t even have an excuse ready, “—working with Mr Stark—”

 

“I know, I know, you were ‘working’,” Max says, like he’s heard it all before, “when I said be home by eight-thirty, that’s what I meant. Not eight-thirty, not nine, eight-thirty.

 

“I’m sorry, we just got—”

 

“Interns don’t _intern_ till nine. I was an intern. You make copies, you get coffee. What the hell takes you so long?”

 

“We were in the lab and—just fixing up a few things.”

 

“Is this even official? You don’t get paid. That guy just prodding you for your brains? Because it’s not like you’d be able to tell.”

 

Peter looks up at the unsounded accusation, “no, no, it is official! It is, and he’s not. He helps me with…everything.”

 

“Helps you? You’re doing shit at school, Peter. If anything, he’s a distraction. And there’s no time for distractions at this time. Come end of year, yu gotta have perfect grades. Your dumb little brain can’t see it, but that’s why I’m here to point it out for you.”

 

He feels like he’s shrinking. “I can still keep up the grades and the internship.”

 

Max moves closer, and Peter moves back. “It wasn’t a question. All that’s finished from now on.”

 

 _What?!_ He looks up with a slight shake of the head and lips slightly parted. “No, no, Mr…” he realises he doesn’t even know this guy’s last name, “Max, I can—I’ll focus. I can do both. It won’t happen next time.”

 

“There is no next time. It’s school to home, and home to school. And the library. No sleepovers. We don’t have time for this stupid kid stuff. You can play with science when you graduate. And I need you to graduate so you can…go.”

 

“What did May say?”

 

That definitely doesn’t sit well with Max. “What’s she gonna say? She agrees that her nephew’s acting like he has no brain right now, and she agrees that school’s more important.”

 

May wouldn’t do that. “I want to talk to her,” he says defiantly. 

 

“Peter—”

 

“You can’t just decide that. That’s—it’s my life. You can’t just get rid of everything in _my_ life that you don’t like,” Peter snaps, brows furrowed as he stares at Max.

 

Max narrows his eyes and takes two big intimidating steps towards him, and he backs up until he hits the wall. “Say that again.”

 

“I want May to—” he moves forwards, and he’s cut off abruptly with a sharp inhale as Max reaches up and throws him back with just one push. His head stings and buzzes when it hits the wall. 

 

He doesn’t know what it is in that moment. _It can’t be fear_. It can’t be fear, because he’s stronger than this man. He’s stronger. He doesn’t feel like it in the moment, but he is. So, why does he feel so small? Like he’d do nothing to defend himself if Max tried anything.

 

“You don’t ever talk back to me like that again,” Max tells him, voice dangerously low and quiet as he blinks quickly. “You learn to respect those older than you.”

 

The hand shoves him back again as soon as he’s standing again. “Got that?”

 

He nods, or thinks he does. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s blinking, trying to breathe and nod all at once. _May_.

 

Maybe he looks just as pathetic as he feels, because he sees a look of annoyed pity on Max’s voice as the man nudges him towards his rooms. He stumbles in quickly, shutting the door behind him.

 

The only name in his mind is Ben. 

 

_Ben, Ben Ben._

 

Ben loved him. If Ben was here, he wouldn’t stop Peter from Spider-Man or the internship. He’d never shout. He never shouted. He never intimidated him. He never even raised his voice. And if Peter had used his brain that night, Ben would be alive.

 

It’s a problem for him, Peter realises. Max is right, because he _has_ ended up doing a lot of stupid things that have gotten either other people or him in dangerous trouble. Ben told him that. Mr Stark did too. So did May.

 

He sighs, and he hasn’t been crying, at least not yet, but his breath still comes out shaky and trembling. The room feels awful. It’s dead quiet. 

 

Webbing the door twice, he leans forwards. He can’t—he can’t breathe. 

 

 _don’t panic_ , he reminds himself. _don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic_.

 

He’s fine. _Didn’t even hurt_. Just a little push, and he deals with worse from Flash alone. That was nothing.

* * *

The next few days go by seamlessly. He doesn’t see Max too much. Or he goes to his room and goes to bed early if he’s around, and by luck and some planning, he gets to avoid the man pretty nicely.

 

“—I can’t! I _cannot_ deal with this every single day! You’re—”

 

“Oh, _you_ can’t? That’s—that’s funny—”

 

“—so tired of this, Max! You tell me—”

 

“May, keep your fucking voice down—”

 

“Don’t tell me how to speak. Just go the hell to work and maybe you’ll cool down that hellfire in your brain.”

 

“I’m not going anywhere. We’re about to be engaged—”

 

Peter’s heart stops. Engaged. _Engaged_. They’ll be married. Max will be there and Ben won’t, and he’ll be there _all_ the time. And he won’t leave when he gets angry or tell Peter he’s going back to his apartment, because they’ll be together and—

 

“Well, clearly it was a mistake,” May’s voice cuts through, and he can imagine her doing that little shrug that she always does when she’s annoyed.

 

“What did you say?”

 

Peter steps forwards, and they don’t stop bickering and yelling until he’s right there, standing by the sofa, eyes widened as he looks at them both.

 

May looks to him first, which makes Max turn around and curse pretty visibly under his breath. 

 

“Are you guys okay?”

 

“What does it look like, Peter?” Max snaps.

 

May looks to him like he’s an immature child rather than the condescending adult he’s being, “nothing, baby. Just—you go to your room. Or if you want, you can go out. We’re just—just going through some adult stuff.” 

 

 _Baby. Adult stuff._ He’s never felt more like a child than he does in this moment. He can handle this. He’s sixteen. Almost seventeen. And no doubt, everything she’s saying to him right is being mentally recorded by Max’s dumb brain to be used against him later on.

 

Max scoffs and throws a hand in the air, “any more coddling and you’d think he was six, not sixteen,” he says right there, because before, at least he waits for her to leave before he starts on his rants.

 

May exhales, “what is your problem? That’s my child you’re talking to,” she snaps defensively.

 

“You’re my problem,” Max says mindlessly, snatching his bag off the countertop and walking out the kitchen and past him. 

 

Peter hears the door slam and flinches sligtly, and May sighs and rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry. Peter, I’m sorry about him, if—just sorry.”

 

Peter can’t bring himself to say anything. Instead, he just nods and treks to his room. She doesn’t seem bothered by the fight, but there isn’t any other moment where Peter’s wanted Max out of their lives so badly.

 

A few hours later, he’s mumbling a ‘bye’ to May as she takes off for the night shift. He wanders around the apartment, turning the TV on, trying to get homework done and even cleaning up.

 

He settles, an hour later, on sitting on the stool and eating cereal, which is when the door opens. 

 

His headphones are in, and he carelessly keeps his head down. Probably May forgetting something. He ignores it until the person walks towards the kitchen, and the person isn’t May.

 

He takes one of the earphones out and looks up, putting his spoon into the bowl and staring cautiously. 

 

Max looks to him and shakes his head. “Tell her I’ll be in my apartment for a few days,” is all he says. He disappears into May’s room. 

 

“ _I bet she went on and on about how shitty I am_ ,” Max yells from inside the room as Peter sits there awkwardly. 

 

He gets off the stool and sighs. “No. Nope, she didn’t say anything,” he says as he starts going to his room. “I’ll see you…later.” Hopefully not.

 

“You look happy,” Max says, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. “You’re becoming a real pain, Peter.”

 

 _He’s leaving_. “I didn’t say anything,” Peter says like the smartass he is. He knows he’s only making him angrier by the looks of it. 

 

“You never do, do you? You know the reason she’s always so pissed off is you. It’s like feeding ten kids, how do you even eat so much? You ever think about that?”

 

For some reason, the fact that they’re fighting gives him solace. He stands and listens to Max speak, but just stares with a more or less blank expression as the man walks closer to him.

 

“I _think_ it’s weird you’re the only one who has a problem with that when she doesn’t,” he finally says, and he’s not even looking at Max anymore. “I _think_ that if she heard you say that she wouldn’t wanna be with you anymore.”

 

“And who’s telling her? What exactly will you say? You know it’s all true.”

 

“Then I’ll tell her that. See what she thinks—“

 

He stumbles back and forgets to breathe for a good few seconds when the stinging pain sets in, almost blinding his left eye for a second when the knuckles hit his cheek.

 

He blinks quickly, one hand lifting up in the air uselessly in an attempt to defend himself while the other tries to hold onto the counter to steady himself. It doesn’t last long, because it’s grabbed harshly, and then he feels the same fingers wrap around the back of his neck.

 

It’s tight. It’s not like last time. It’s tight around half of his neck, the fingers pressing so hard that he can’t even move his head. He’s scared to even try.

 

His fingers claw at Max’s, trying to get free. He’s a little knocked up, but he could get out. It’s dangerous, but his heart is thudding like there’s no tomorrow, and his senses are screaming.

 

But he knows, right now, that it’s not just his identity crisis pulling him down, it’s fear. Max might not be stronger, but he _is_ scarier. 

 

The phone rings, and he can barely see straight as Max takes it off the tabletop. “Oh, look, it’s Aunt May,” he says, pushing him back onto the stool. The hand grips him in place as he looks up, breathing loud and uneven.

 

“May,” he says, putting the phone to his ear and ripping out the earphones, “so glad you called, Peter really isn’t feeling well. Came home and saw him nearly passed out, poor thing—yeah,” he says as he stares straight at Peter. “No need. He’s feeling fine now, maybe just low blood pressure or something. You stay and work, you know, I’ll stay with him.”

 

He prays that she’ll say no, but Max nods, “of course, honey. Look, it’s nothing a little food can’t fix, and I’ll do that. It’s a one-man job.”

 

He hangs up, then throws the phone towards the fridge, and Peter watches as the phone clatters onto the tiles, a crack running through the centre of the screen, almost matching the one that’s breaking his heart right now.

 

He tries to breathe, and Max makes him face him again, “you still think you’re big and strong?” he mocks, “what’s the matter now? Can’t breathe. Just in—“ he pulls him forwards all of a sudden, and he nearly falls off because he has no control over himself, “—and out.”

 

Why can’t he move? He can’t move. He can’t breathe and he can’t move. His legs feel like they’re not even there when he tries to steady himself. 

 

He’s pulled up anyway, and almost falls, but that hand around his neck is strong, and the way the nails dig further into his skin is enough for him to hold onto the man’s arm like a lifeline. “Stop—“

 

“I’ll stop, I’ll stop,” Max says in a disgustingly sweet tone, and he lets him go. 

 

He quickly retreats, stumbling into the stool and breathing loudly. Max stands there, like an animal cornering its prey, and Peter wastes no time in swerving around and trying to get to his room.

 

He feels like he more or less just ends up inside, and doesn’t even remember walking to get there. As soon as the door shuts, he haphazardly webs at it, missing more than he gets. 

 

His chest hurts. It’s—it’s pain. It’s hurt and it’s pain and it’s not physical, because he can’t remember hurting himself there, or _being_ hurt there. But it still hurts, every single time he inhales, it hurts.

 

What does he do? He can’t think. His phone is smashed outside, and Max will have to break down those doors to get him to leave his room, which he wouldn’t put past him at this point.

 

He needs something. He needs some _one_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the kudos and comments which help me write❤️
> 
> on track to finish something for once coz look at the speed of the updates pretty proud if I say so myself


	4. tread carefully

_He’s laying in his bed, clutching the body cushion, trying his hardest to ignore the unbearably searing pain around his eye._

 

_And of course he’s out of his painkillers, or as May called them, ‘super-strong pills for a super-strong Spider’. So instead, he lays there, replaying what happened over and over again in his mind._

 

_In a haze, he hears the door open. The webs must’ve dissolved already. Has it already been two hours?_

 

_The steps are gentle and light, and that’s why he can tell it’s May. She sits by his bed, running a hand through his hair._

 

_He thinks he might actually tell her what happened this time. Max wasn’t her favourite person when she left the house, and it’s not like she won’t believe him._

 

_He feels her give him a kiss, then she whispers, “he only did it because he cares for you.”_

 

_She moves her wrist, and only then, he notices that he’s been clutching onto her hand like a lifeline, breathing slow and heavy when she tells him that._

 

_“He just wants you to do well,” she says again, and she kisses into his hair again, “you’ll heal, honey, don’t think about it. Just breathe.”_

 

He wakes up in a sweat, gasping so loud that he hears the unnatural whine that escapes his mouth when he does. It’s—it was a dream. Just a dream. She wouldn’t say that. She wouldn’t actually say that.

 

As soon as he squints, the pain flares up. He can see the light beaming through, and takes his phone from by the pillow. Five in the morning. 

 

He does try to go back to sleep, but the hours pass by like minutes, and it’s nearly seven when he checks his phone again.

 

Contrary to popular belief that his healing factor is invincible, it takes him a good few hours to recover or even days when the injury’s bad.

 

He realizes, in the morning, that this is one of those bad injuries.

 

Standing in front of the mirror, he can see the disgusting mix of colors blending around his eye; blue, black and purple, all in the darkest shades possible on skin. He doesn’t see it healing today.

 

He can make it through school, and has a foolproof way to miss lab day, until May interferes and ruins it all. She hasn’t seen his eye, and he keeps it that way when he leaves in the morning for school with a hood on, telling her he’s too late for breakfast because he has to get there for an early, made up Decathlon practice.

 

She lets him go. He messages Happy that he can’t come because he has a tight curfew today and he’s busy.

 

It’s not enough. His sweet aunt messages him midday to say Happy checked with her, and she’s expecting him home by nine. He hangs his head low when he reads it. What about the phone?

 

When he lifts his head, he’s met with two very concerned faces. Ned and MJ’s.

 

“What?” He asks, and does he really need to do that? He looks like he’s been in a midnight alley brawl. 

 

“Okay, I’ll say it,” MJ starts, leaning forwards across the table, “Peter, do you realise there’s a huge black eye on your _face_?”

 

“Dude, what the hell happened?”

 

Peter shrugs, “just Spider-Manning. It’s fine, guys. This guy just hit really hard but it’ll heal in a few days.

 

They don’t believe him. He wouldn’t believe himself either.

 

That’s how he ends up at the lab.

 

“You look…just for my assurance, tell me you’re not high,” Tony pleads, sighing.

 

He takes his seat and looks up, then looks to Tony, who waits for an answer, “I’m definitely not, in fact, I don’t even think I _can_ get high,” he says as he takes the glasses off and puts them on the table

 

“That’s great to hear,” Tony says, “and loving the change. Glasses indoors. Some might call that weird or _douchey_ , even, but I think—” he stops talking. 

 

But Peter doesn’t want to turn to see why. He leans his hand against the side with the black eye and frowns, “but you think…?”

 

“Look at me.”

 

Peter shrugs, mumbling a distant “what” in there somewhere as he stares uselessly at the computer screen which has only a blank tab open and he could at least _try_ and do a better job at lying, but maybe that’s not what he wants to do.

 

He hears a drawer open, something clutter, and then Tony’s chair roll, “hey, kid, catch,” Tony says, and he feels it coming a second before and unknowingly twists in his chair to catch the ball midair, which proceeds to melt around his hand.

 

“Woah,” Tony recoils, eyes widening and mouth forming an ‘o’ shape, “who’d you piss off this time?”

 

Peter sighs tiredly with a frown, “no one,” he says, shaking his hand as the metal clambers around his fingers. Who did he piss off? He pissed off Max. He did that. It’s on him 

 

“Uh huh. Seriously. Who did that? That boy at school? Because I’m—”

 

Peter winces, “I’m fine,” he says. 

 

He’s really not. The bruise still stings every time he blinks, and he knows it looks just as nasty and horrible as it feels. He’s seen the bloodshot eye. 

 

And now that he’s thinking about it, it’s not even the eye. It’s the reminder of what he did. He could’ve fought back and stood up, because strength isn’t a competition between the two. He could’ve _not_ said all those things to Max that made him so angry. Max—he’s back with May as quickly as he left, because of what _he_ did last night. 

 

“You haven’t been fine for a long time. ‘Fess up. Gimme a name,” Tony says, and it’s surreal how gentle he sounds.

 

Peter smiles sadly, then looks up at Tony. “Mr Stark, I can handle this.”

 

Tony very visibly clenches his jaw as he moves forwards. He’s so close, and Peter hopes he’s not getting too angry with him.

 

“Handle _what_?” Tony asks, voice strained and more tired than he feels, which he didn’t think was possible. “What is it that you’re handling? Because buddy, you’re not doing a great job, and that’s why I’m here. I’m a helper. I can help.”

 

He’s created a bigger mess than he started with. Their lives are all intertwined, and Max is in there somewhere because he was too stupid to speak up before, and he can’t do anything now. He can’t ask Mr Stark to help, or May to leave him. If he just finds the balance—he’ll do it.

 

“It’s school,” he lies. He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe he’s a little scared about telling the truth. “But just so we’re clear, you’re saying I should get better at hiding things? Like you? That’s ‘handling’ it? Maybe I should borrow May’s concealer next time.”

 

Tony doesn’t seem impressed with his jokes. “You’re nowhere near as funny as you think.”

 

Peter sighs and rolls his chair forwards. “Yes I am. And it’s nothing. Doesn’t even hurt.”

 

“There’s another lie, to think we tapped out of those for tonight. I didn’t ask if it hurts, because it’s very obvious that it does. Who did it?”

 

“Lacrosse. We were playing and the ball just hit me out of nowhere. Guess I wasn’t paying attention,” he lies easily, even if he’s a few minutes late thinking of the excuse. Spider-Man’s becoming a hard excuse to use when Karen is monitoring him every second that he’s wearing the suit.

 

There’s a faint, unconvinced expression on Tony’s face, but he doesn’t push it. Just studies him carefully and nods. “Lacrosse. That was hard to come up with.”

 

“I didn’t—I told you the truth. Can we just get started?”

 

Tony’s already up by the time he asks, rummaging through a drawer. He takes out a pen, then gestures for Peter to come to him.

 

Peter sighs and scoots his chair forwards. 

 

The hand kind of comes out of nowhere, intending to gently lift his head up, but the ‘gentle’ part seems to escape his mind when he gasps softly and quickly reaches for it. “Sorry—I’m sorry. Just...jumpy,” he says, fidgeting.

 

Tony stops, and Peter reluctantly looks up at him as he lets go of the hand, meeting eyes that only reflect worry and care. There’s only love there. 

 

“You’d tell me,” Tony says quietly, narrowing his glassy eyes, “if it was something else—something serious. You’d tell me that, right? You’d know to tell me,” he says, and it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself rather than Peter.

 

There’s so much trust bundled up and just thrown into the air haphazardly right in front of him. He doesn’t even answer, and still, Tony smiles at him.

 

“Look up,” he says with a quick tone change.

 

He does as he’s told. “Since when are you a doctor?” He quips as his eyes shift to the ceiling. 

 

“Since I’ve had more black eyes than I can count. Suit’s really not as protective as everyone thinks.”

 

“I never thought it was. You come out with more injuries than me.”

 

“You wear paper. Can’t even call that a suit, but to each their own.”

 

“Uh yeah, that’s the point,” Peter says as Tony moves away. 

 

“Eye looks good,” he says as he chucks the penlight to the table. “Okay, Alright,” he sits back down, “let’s get to work. Try and not engage in any bodily harm for today.”

* * *

He gets home on time. It’s barely eight, and he has time to stand outside and really contemplate _what the hell_ he’s doing here, to himself, to May, to everyone. 

 

Finally, he’s inside, shutting the door quietly and stepping inside as quietly as he can. He quickly turns when he hears the footsteps approach.

 

“Peter, how was your day?”

 

“Uh, good,” he says, nodding as he takes his shoes off and tries not to falter under the glare. 

 

“Come here,” Max says, noticing the fact that he hasn’t moved from the door.

 

He looks up and his mind tells him _no_ a billion times over and over. He closes his eyes for a second, and realises that talking back hasn’t worked out great for him so far.

 

Max lifts out his hand, and it’s—it’s a phone. “I got carried away last night,” he says.

 

Peter looks at the device in suspicion, “you don’t have to—“

 

“I do. I did, and you’re gonna take it,” he orders, and Peter doesn’t have to be told twice with the way his tone changes. 

 

He takes the phone and looks up with a tight smile. “Thanks.”

 

“Look, you don’t have to be walking on eggshells around me. Last night—I had a fight with May and—and I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanna do better. For both of you. She loves you, and if that’s how it is, then you’re also an important party of my life by extension. And all I want is for you to—to just—“

 

“Do what you say,” Peter finishes.

 

Max nods slowly, “and to that end, the phone is a gesture of good faith for us both. I can see where you are, and I can see who you talk to, and that solves about eighty percent of our problems.”

 

He looks down at the phone and _so stupid_ he fell for it again. He wants to die. What the hell does he even say to that? Say no? Because that always goes down so well.

 

“I’m cutting down on the internship and I got home—“

 

“Cutting down. I told you to quit—you know, it’s fine. That’s what the phone’s for. It builds trust between the two of us, right?”

 

“Max, I don’t—“

 

“Keep it on. I’ll know when it’s off,” says Max, nodding and turning back around. 

 

When Peter’s inside his room, and has webbed his room shut, which has kind of become routine at this point, he sits on the floor, rummaging through his bag and pulling out his mask. 

 

He puts it on and holds the phone in his hands. “Karen, this—can you scan the phone? How is everything being sent to another phone? Hypothetically, if I called someone, would someone else hear that too?”

 

“ _Is this your phone, Peter?_

 

“It’s _a_ phone, can you just check that?”

 

“ _Sure, I’m scanning it now,_ ” Karen says cheerily. Then a few seconds later, “ _I think everything on this phone would be cloned._ ”

 

He sighs heavily. “Kill me.”

 

“Peter—“

 

“How much? Like just messages and where I—where the person is? Or like the actual call?”

 

“Your call audio wouldn’t be cloned. It’s a basic spy application which you can easily delete. Whose phone is this, Peter?”

 

“Thanks, Karen,” he says, and snatches the mask off his face. He kind of feels bad for leaving Karen like that, but she makes it a point to remind him over and over that she can’t actually feel bad about that. 

 

He could…he could web it on the library roof during patrol. He could give it to Ned during that time. He could leave it at school during internship days— _crap_ plan. That’s too much work. It’s so much work and it’ll backfire.

 

He could— _shit!_ Shit.

 

_don’t panic just yet_

 

What would May think of that? He could tell her. He _should_ tell her. She’d probably realise that this is insane. Unless she doesn’t. He couldn’t handle that. If she took his side, he wouldn’t be able to handle it. 

 

He could use the suit for everything. For messages and texts he could use Karen, and that’d solve eighty percent of _his_ problems.

 

And in a few months hopefully, Max would be calmer than he is now and he could slowly get rid of the phone. It’s just temporary—the anger. It’s all temporary, and if he just does everything right, he’ll avoid trouble.

 

He starts scratching at the back of his neck again. He doesn’t actually know what to do.

* * *

“That was something,” Pepper says as she opens the door and gestures to her eye. “The eye.”

 

Tony narrows his eyes and looks around the room, “he lied.”

 

“About?”

 

“How he got it.”

 

“Okay. And how did he get it?”

 

“He _said_ it was Lacrosse. That a ‘ball’ hit him,” Tony tells her, and he makes it sound as unconvincing as he can.

 

Pepper nods thoughtfully, “you know competitive teenagers are. It happens.”

 

Tony shakes his head, “to _him_ it doesn’t. He would’ve seen that ball coming from miles away. I don’t believe him.”

 

“Hmm, but he’s _normal_ at school, right? Maybe dodging would’ve seemed weird—you don’t know exactly how it happened. At school he’s not Spider-Man.”

 

“Yeah. Well, it took him five minutes to come up with that excuse. All I have to do is call his friend and he’s done,” Tony says quickly. If he can find Ned’s number, it’s all over for the solo mission the kid has going on.

 

“Tony. We’re beyond middle school investigations,” Pepper says with a frown, “I’m sure when he’s ready to tell you how he got a black eye, he’ll tell you and besides, he didn’t seem worried.”

 

“He’s never worried,” he looks up to Pepper, tilting his head, “that’s his problem. He underestimates the problem, and then he gets in trouble and he’s too—he never tells anyone.”

 

He thinks to Toomes, but that’s a bad example because that was kind of his fault too. Mostly his fault. And then—“

 

“The building collapse. Remember that? He didn’t even tell me until last year. For me, that’s six years I didn’t know about that. Then the Snap and he didn’t tell anyone he was having those horrible nightmares. Were they even nightmares? Didn’t sound like nightmares. Sounded like something out of a horror movie. You don’t feel yourself die I’m a nightmare.”

 

“Tony—“

 

“What do I—how do I help? That’s your territory. You’re kinda the expert in that stuff. I’ve—I’ve built something with him, Pepper, and that means I need to do more than tell him a few jokes and send him on his way. He’s a kid.”

 

She sighs, then takes his hand, “if you think it’s serious, which I’m getting the hint it might be, then yeah, start with the friend. He’ll tell it to you straight. From what I hear, he kinda worships you.”

 

Tony scoffs lightheartedly, “yeah. Then what?”

 

“Then when he tells you that it was Lacrosse, you leave it alone. _If_ it isn’t…” she trails off and shrugs, “it could just be bullying. Or—“

 

“And he freaked out when I was about to lift his head to look at the eye,” Tony adds quickly.

 

She stays quiet for a few long seconds. “It’s probably overreaching, but what about the boyfriend?”

 

Tony stares, really trying to understand what she’s getting at. “I’m—whose boyfriend? _He_ likes the girl. MJ.”

 

“Tony, his _aunt’s_ boyfriend, or fiancé, I hear.”

 

“Fiancé? How do you know all this?” He points his pen to her and frowns. “Most importantly, why do I _not_ know any of this?”

 

“Peter told Happy who told me.”

 

“Why are you two talking about it? See, these are the conversations that _I_ be in on.”

 

She scoffs, then throws her hands in the air like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Happy likes May, Tony where have you been?” She asks incredulously. 

 

He waves his hand, “alright, alright. So fiancé Max,” he moves back like he’s just been shocked, “he wouldn’t do that.”

 

Pepper raises her brows, “are you sure? Have you met him? A friend of mine in middle school used to come  
in with all these bruises and dumb stories that I can’t believe I missed. We didn’t find out until she said it herself, and honestly, she shouldn’t have had to. We could all see it.”

 

“I’ve been told good things. He’s trying to get him to do homework, get his work done on time, stay out less, get into a good college. Doesn’t sound like a bad guy to me. It was one black eye.”

 

“That you are freaking out over. We’re ruling him out?”

 

Does he want to do that? No, not yet. “No. He—Peter doesn’t like him very much.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“Well, _I_ thought it was his uncle dying and the whole ‘replacement’ issue, but _you’re_ making it seem like fiancé Max punches kids in his spare time.”

 

“I’m not. You asked for my help. He got knocked up pretty bad, I’m just looking at what it could be.”

 

He inhales and shrugs, “I don’t—I mean—I don’t know.” He didn’t think about that. “But May would know. Peter would say something. He would say something, right?”

 

She looks away and purses her lips. “Kids usually don’t,” she says as she meets his eyes, “if you think there’s something there, then you have to tread really carefully. That’s him, his aunt, and that guy who we’re accusing and it’s a really _big_ accusation, Tony.

 

“And it’s a sensitive topic. You get the right facts and truth before you set out to do something that might make or break everything you have with that child.”

 

There’s a moment of silence before he speaks. “ _God,_ that went dark fast. It can’t be that guy,” he says, but his mind is nagging him now.

 

“Then maybe it’s just school. He’s come in with worse.”

 

“As Spider-Man. He’s come in worse as Spider-Man, not himself,” Tony corrects, because that’s the important distinction here. Peter isn’t Spider-Man because Spider-Man is the confident, quippy alter-ego to Peter’s normal overwhelmingly quiet and shy state. 

 

“Huh, I always thought they were the same person.”

 

“Pep.”

 

“Okay. Why don’t you very _discreetly_ call the friend, and then wait a little to see if Peter will tell you himself? I’m sure he’d appreciate that. Don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.”

 

“You would’ve done the same thing last time,” he tells her, resting his temple against his hand. 

 

She scoffs, “um, I think the fact that I’m bringing it up in this conversation proves that I definitely would not have.”

 

“I applied...rational calculus to a sensitive situation where—“

 

“You hear yourself, right? Sometimes I think if you just repeat your own words back to yourself, a lot of our problems could be avoided.”

 

“Okay, you’re acting very…” he twists his finger against his temple, “ _immature_ right now, and I’d appreciate—“

 

“ _I’m_ immature? Which one of us broke the ceiling a literal week ago?”

 

He stands up, “you know what, my lab could—“

 

“Your lab which is in New York? As in the one that’s not here—“

 

“Was _built_ for that, and I didn’t count—“

 

“It’s why I have to spend my time explaining to Morgan why her dad blew a hole in our living room. Imagine that conversation, Tony.”

 

They stare at each other, half smiles on their faces, until Tony speaks first. “Science comes at a price.”

 

She laughs, “yeah, it’s been our home, lately, that price.”

 

Max, he thinks under all of that. It’s not him. Unless it is, and he’s missed something to huge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we’re onto him!! Kinda!!
> 
> I added two more chapters, because I’m enjoying writing this and I have so many ideas
> 
> I guess nothing really major happened in this one but it kinda had to be there
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


	5. how to break a heart

By Thursday morning, the bruise is almost completely gone. He touches around his eye, staring in the mirror and trying to find any discoloration. There’s a faint hint of purple left, barely noticeable.

 

When he comes out of his room, May is standing at the kitchen, leaning on the counter with her phone. She turns and looks at him. “I was gonna ask about the eye,” she says, shaking her head at herself. “So, superbaby, what do you wanna eat?”

 

“I don’t mind,” Peter says.

 

“Speaking of the eye. Aren’t people in school going to notice?” She asks, tone suddenly changing to worry. “I have makeup. How about a little purple in the morning just to—"

 

He laughs. “Trust me, they’re not gonna notice. Ned and MJ would, but they already know, so we’re good.”

 

She nods, “okay. Well, me and my makeup skills are here in the future. Next time, dodge the ball.”

 

He smiles. “I can go and get coffee for us both.”

 

“I can make pancakes,” May counters, raising her brows.

 

“Come on, May, let’s not do that to ourselves so early in the morning.”

 

She lets out a laugh, “you’re a bad person.”

 

“I’m joking, I’m joking—”

 

The front door rattles, and they both turn and watch as Max comes inside. He looks at them both, holding a bag in his hand. “Got us breakfast,” he says, and it’s to May.

 

May looks at Peter, and he can tell she’s about to say something and probably get him into trouble again, and he speaks up before she can. “I was—going to school anyway. It’s fine,” he nods, smiling at her. 

 

“Nope. We split it,” she says.

 

That’s what she does as soon as she has her bagel in her hand, giving him one half while Max looks at him like he’s just killed his cat or something.

* * *

The school day goes slow. When he comes home, he takes out one earphone, slowing down at the door when his senses flare up.

 

“— _committee. It’s vigilantism at its peak, so really, what we’re doing is making the streets safer_ —” he stops and Peter frowns, “ _I’ll call you back_.”

 

He almost stumbles back in the middle of taking his shoes off when Max just appears in front of him like something out of a video game. 

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be studying somewhere?” He asks, phone hanging low in his hand.

 

“I was. Just came home now.”

 

“I have eyes. I can see you ‘just’ came. Were you listening to my conversation?” He asks accusingly, almost bewildered. 

 

He quickly shakes his head in disbelief, “no, no, definitely not. I just—” he stops. “Literally just came.”

 

“What’s that?” He nods towards his hand.

 

Peter looks down at the bag and back to Max, “just…just food. May’s working, so—”

 

“You know, you spend an awful lot for someone so small. And your subway fares, how about cutting down on the takeout?”

 

Peter stands there awkwardly. “She’s fine with that.”

 

“Is she really?” He asks mockingly, “you’re not even related to her. Doesn’t that bother you?”

 

His heart flutters, and he blinks a few times at Max, because that came out of nowhere, “she’s my aunt,” he says flatly, pulling his backpack up and trying to get to his room.

 

Max takes his arm and stops him. “Right. But you’re not actually related. She told me. Kinda seems weird now, right? I’m moving on, replacing the guy who’s solely responsible for you even being here right now. She’s moving with her life, and you’re like a tether, holding her back.”

 

He looks straight. He doesn’t want to look up at Max and give him the satisfaction, because he knows for a fact that his emotion-control is pretty weak right now. And always. Ben’s gone.

 

“Look here.”

 

He doesn’t.

 

“I said look at me,” the voice is rough and cruel.

 

He shrugs as hard as he can, and for him that’s pretty hard. It makes Max stumble back. “Just back off,” he snaps, and he forgets that this isn’t Flash, who will roll his eyes and wander down the corridor, this is Max, who will fight back harder than Peter can resist and throw a punch without a care.

 

His step is cut short again when Max pulls him back harshly, “y’know, I think the conversation went something down the line of her saying her life would be very different without you.”

 

They’re staring at each other, eye-to-eye. Peter clenches his jaw. She wouldn’t say that. He knows she wouldn’t. “Do you not like me, or something?”

 

Max tries to pull him aside, and he pushes the man back against the pillar just before a fist flies towards his face. He quickly grabs the wrist, hand shaking as he keeps Max from moving.

 

It’s not hard for him, but his hand trembles in the grip. He lets go after a long few seconds, and then they stand in silence again. 

 

“My bad,” Max breathes out as he backs up, “maybe it’s the clothes that make you look scrawny,” he says. “Or maybe it’s that night. When I saw how weak you really were.”

 

“What’s your problem?” He asks, voice strained.

 

“You. _You_ are my problem, Peter. I see a future together with May, and you’re not in it. And quite frankly, she feels the same way, sorry to break it to you.”

 

His chest feels funny. “She wouldn’t say that.” It comes out much less confident than it’s meant to.

 

“Would _you_ tell an orphaned little kid he’s bothering you? She’s doing all this because she thinks she has to, and that’s what she’ll tell you if you ask,” he straightens up, “I don’t have to pretend like she does.”

 

 _Ouch_. His teeth are clenched so hard it feels like they’ll break, but it’s what’s stopping him from going all teary and upset in front of someone whose sole aim right now is to do exactly that.

 

“Especially when she knows she can’t send you someplace else. It’s guilt. Kinda like talking to that one lonely kid in the class who no one likes because you feel bad for them,” he purses his lips and tilts his head in a mockingly sympathetic way, “you must…feel it sometimes, no? Never come up in your mind that she feels kind of…forced into this?”

 

It _has_ come up. In fact, recently, it’s been coming up an awful lot. He’s only told her once, and she was really, really upset. But maybe she just felt bad.

 

When he was in fifth grade, a girl in class told him that her mom told her that no one would love her like she does, because she’s her _mother_. That’s why she was confused that he didn’t have any. He told her he had May, and she said _”but that’s not your mom”_ , and it made him wonder. It upset him. The same week, he’d watched from the corner as May argued furiously with the teacher. The next day, they had to be told in class that the people who love you the most don’t have to be your mom and dad, even if that’s how it is for _most people_. 

 

He didn’t think about that again too much until a few weeks after Ben’s funeral. Someone told May it was _”so inspiring that you’re taking care of his nephew now that he’s gone_ ”, and in that moment, it made him feel stupid more than anything else. He hadn’t thought about that, ever. Never would’ve even crossed his mind if that lady hadn’t brought it up. May had curtly responded with _”that’s my kid you’re talking about”_. Special emphasis on the _my_ , and a loud, clear scoff.

 

And again, that unfounded fear of abandonment and sudden wave of insecurity had come and gone, because it was Ben, May and Peter. And then, it had been May and Peter. Just the two of them. And she loved him, and she didn’t even need to say it for him to know, and that was special.

 

But here was Max. And he feels bad that he’s even considering doubting her just because a man he’s known for only a few months tells him so. But she’s happy, and his _dumb, dumb_ brain is scared of what her answer might be, so this is all face-value.

 

“And, also, since we’re on the topic—”

 

“I don’t want—”

 

“I don’t give a shit what you want,” he said, stepping forwards threateningly. 

 

He can’t remember the last time he thought of his parents, but they’re in his head right now. They’d want him. Parents want their children, and if he had his, they’d love him too. His mother would tell him she loves him, just like May does, but he wouldn’t feel insecure about it like he does. That’s what he thinks. He wouldn’t end up with them by accident. He’d be with them because they wanted to bring him into this world.

 

“She won’t go anywhere without you,” Max says, and it brings him a little joy to hear him say that. She loves him, that’s why. “You stay out of the way. Go to the library, come home by eight. No later. And remember, I’m watching everything you do. Don’t bullshit me ever again and you do as you’re told.”

 

 _It’s a lie. They’re all lies_ , the rational part of his brain tells him. The other part tells him that he wouldn’t know the technicalities of their relationship if she didn’t tell him in the first place. She confided in _him_ because she loves him.

 

“Also, I’m getting real tired of the talking back. How about we cut back on that? Next time the bruise won’t fade in two days,” he threatens, then retreats back to the living room.

 

That was a threat. He just threatened to do that _again_. He’d fight back next time, and he wants to tell himself there will be no ‘next time’ but that never ends up sticking. He can’t even begin to guess what’ll tick Max off next. 

 

“Why’s your phone off?” Max asks when he’s at his door, bag slouching off. 

 

He reaches into his pocket and takes it out. Shit. “It’s…it’s on airplane mode. For school. I—I forgot to turn it on,” he stumbles on his words. It’s the truth. Sometimes he forgets, when he’s with Ned the whole way home. He wasn’t today, but that phone isn’t anything worth turning on anymore.

 

There’s a dangerous atmosphere, and Max scoffs with a shake of the head. He starts power-walking, and—and—

 

Peter slams the door shut, breathing loud and heavy as he twists the lock. 

 

“Open the damn door!” Max yells from the other side.

 

His shaking hand grabs his hair in a panic. He’s never been in a situation like this before and he’s fully, totally freaking out. Is Max going to break in? Would he do that? What would he tell May when she—

 

“Open the door in five seconds, or trust me, this day will not go your way. In fact, this week will not be good for you.”

 

He stands idly for a second, then, despite his beating heart and screaming fear, unlocks it. And as soon as he does, it thrusts open, and he steps back as the man walks in, eyes wild with fury.

 

They stand for a short minute, and then Max is gone. He stands frozen in his position, almost shaking but he’s so scared. He’s _so, so_ scared. 

 

Max is back, and he has a hammer in his hand. Peter’s eyes widen in the second that he thinks he’s about to be murdered in his own home, but Max turns around, holding the door in place with one hand, and the hammer in the other. 

 

The hammer clashes with the metal, and pieces that once belonged to the lock shatter to the ground, and he flinches at the sudden noise. Then Max strikes it again, and he can’t stop recoiling. 

 

He throws the hammer to the floor, and then turns around, but Peter’s still staring at the pieces of broken metal glimmering all over the carpet.

 

“One more problem solved.”

 

Peter looks up at him, and he really has to control the urge to not breakdown in front of this guy, even though the remnants of the lock and the clanging still echoing in his ears is making him feel physically sick. He looked at Max, because the man is a psycho. Do normal people do this? He doesn’t think so. 

 

Max takes him by the arm abruptly, and he finds himself being pushed down on the chair while the man towers overhead, still holding his arm. He doesn’t dare look up, mostly because he can’t stop staring at both the hammer and the metal. Metal and hammer.

 

Everything smashing to pieces around him, him included.

 

“Every time I think we’re past this, we end up right back where we started,” Max snaps.

 

His mind spins. Should he argue his case? It was just school. Physically impossible to go anywhere else in the time he made it back to the apartment. 

 

He frowns, staring at the floor as his breaths get louder and more uncontrollable. His mind is panicking, and why—why the hell is his—why is the pulsing so loud? It feels like he’s shaking. Is he shaking? Should he say something?

 

No, he’s too close. Max’s hands are right here, and he can’t risk saying the wrong thing, and at the moment, anything he says will be the wrong thing. So, he says nothing at all; he stays completely silent, not that he could find the courage to speak anyway.

 

The nails are there, digging into his forearm. It hurts more than he thinks it should, and he shifts uncomfortably under the hold.

 

“I need you to get it into your head, Peter, that there’s going to be no more prancing in and out like you own the place. You listen to the adults, and I’m getting real old of repeating myself over and over—” he lets go of the arm, and Peter sighs quietly. “I don’t wanna have to do this again.”

 

Max leaves, pulling the door only to have it bounce back open. He squints and the only relief is that at least he’s alone now, because he was sure he’d have a heart attack if Max stayed around any longer with the rate that his heart was speeding at.

 

He quickly takes his back-back, and quietly pushes the door to as far as it’ll go, then places the backpack in front of it. Then he stands back, staring at it like it’ll break down any second, or maybe engulf him. Then he won’t have to be here, at least.

 

He rubs at his eye. How did he get here? He’s in a terrible place, like a sinking hole. And he can’t get out, and there’s no one around because he let it get this far. His breath hitches, and he realizes he’s crying. 

 

This isn’t home anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg!! 
> 
> look at me add more chapters just so I can hurt everyone more
> 
>  
> 
> I’m living for all your lovely comments, thank you!!


	6. blissfully oblivious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a moment of silence before MJ speaks
> 
> “ _Mr Stark, I don’t know how close you are with him, but have you met Max?_ ”

He spends the night restless, unable to sleep, twisting and turning until he ends up with the pillow lined next to him and his arm hanging over the side. 

 

His eyes stare stoically at the tiny gap where the door doesn’t close. The gap, through which he can see the grey of the living room, hear the TV playing and the occasional clanking of the glass on the table. Even Max’s heartbeat and breathing if he focuses closely enough. 

 

This isn’t the same as when he’d purposely leave the door open, waiting for Ben to come home, knowing that the quiet thud of the door and rustling of keys at midnight would wake him up. And he’d pretend he was just having trouble sleeping, and Ben would question it but ruffle his hair and offer him the rest of the bag of chips he often had in his hand all the same. They’d talk, because they didn’t for too long. And Ben would be there with him when he went to sleep, telling him weird stories from work and making him laugh _but don’t make so much noise, or your aunt’s gonna kill both of us_. 

 

Now he’d be fine with this door never opening again. Anyone can come in, and there was—there _is_ a hammer laying in the corner next to the wall, reminding him that he doesn’t get to decide anything anymore. 

 

His heart feels like it’s trying to jump outside his chest the whole time he’s lying there. Maybe he should turn around. It’s loud because he’s lying on his chest, he thinks, but he can’t move. He can’t do anything, so he lets it be. Lets his tired eyes, begging to go sleep, stare at that gap. 

 

His phone lights up occassioally, with the hundreds of messages from the group chat, he guesses, but replying is probably a bad idea at the same. He can imagine Max sitting there on the sofa, a frown forming as he stands up and starts barging into his room, asking a million questions but not letting him answer.

 

May wouldn’t like this. She wouldn’t like Max after she sees the lock, right? She’s not that kind of person, and he’ll tell her, he decides. He’ll tell her because it’s the right thing to do before things get out of hand more than they have already.

* * *

He wakes up with a sharp intake of air and why is he panicking? When did he fall asleep? He doesn’t remember—his eyes stop on the figure he can make out—Max. Max, sitting on his chair, a phone in his hand. He looks to his side table and that’s his phone! 

 

“What’ve you been telling your friends?” Max asks, not looking up at him as he scrolls casually through the phone.

 

Peter suppresses a yawn. It’s barely six in the morning, as his clock and lack of light outside tell him. And he doesn’t remember May coming home, or the door closing, which is what he was waiting for. May. Where’s May? “I don’t . . . _what_?”

 

Max straightens up, looking at him. “Why’s this MJ guy ‘worried’ about you?”

 

“That’s—she’s my friend. I guess I haven’t—”

 

“I don’t care. What did you tell them? That I’m some horrible guy just because I care about your safety? This is good for you,” Max tells him, cocking his head.

 

“No, she’s just worried. She’s probably just wondering where I am,” he says, sitting up, “because we’re meeting for Decathlon—”

 

“Right,” Max cuts off, throwing the phone on the table. He looks around the room and then on the floor. “Look at this mess,” he says, irritated. But Peter’s still sighing silently in relief that his lie worked. “Didn’t I tell you to do that yesterday? This is basic. You’re not five.”

 

“Where’s May?”

 

“She’s sleeping. She had a long day yesterday, in case you hadn’t noticed. It’s five in the morning, why would she up?”

 

His chest stings. It’s so early and he has no idea what’s going on. “Exactly. It’s five in the morning. I can’t go to school and the library and come home at eight when you wake me up _at five_ for no reason—May’s not—“

 

“Alright,” Max interrupts, and only then he notices that Max is in his work clothes with his badge sitting proudly on his belt and no doubt a gun under the jacket. “ _May, May, May_. You know why she can’t be your safety net?” he puts the gun on the desk, and Peter’s chest tightens. 

 

He gets to his feet, almost swaying as he stands. Man, he’s so sleepy. “All the things you said to me about her—I _know_ that she’ll hate you for this—I _know_ she wouldn’t be with someone like you if I tell her,” he says confidently. He _is_ confident. 

 

“Uh huh. What will you tell her?” It’s mocking, intentionally said in a way to make him feel like a senseless, complaining child. And that’s not true. That’s not what ’s happening.

 

“How about you breaking my lock?” He scoffs, stepping forwards, “that’s not normal. You pretending that you’re just looking—“

 

“Where’re you going?” Max stands in the way, blocking the door, but no way that anything’s going to happen this late at night with May right next door. “Don’t think—“

 

“Move out of the way,” Peter cuts through him, and he’s aware that he’s not the most intimidating guy here, or anywhere for that matter, but he manages to match Max’s intensity. 

 

“Going to May?” he takes Peter’s wrist, and Peter pulls back instantly, making Max stumble back a little. “Alright. You gotta to listen to me,” he whispers fiercely. 

 

“Yeah. I don’t think I do.”

 

“May told me about the husband—about _Ben._ That was his name, right?”

 

Peter turns his head again, “you’re trying to—“

 

“I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her what you didn’t about that night, because her story and yours—they don’t match up. I checked.”

 

He shakes his head, “she knows everything already. Already knows—“

 

“That you saw the guy ten minutes earlier? What did you say in the report…you were ‘angry’? That’s why you didn’t let her sit in? She raised you better than that, and the one opportunity you had to show it—you completely screwed it up. You got someone killed. Your own uncle. The detectives might’ve told you how ‘brave’—“ he shakes his shoulders, “—you were but you know what it was, and that’s why you never told her.”

 

“You’re—you don’t know anything about that,” his voice cracks, and he steps back with a heavy sigh.

 

“Don’t I?”

 

“I know if I tell her that she wouldn’t—“

 

“Maybe not. But _you_ know that when she finds out what _I_ know, she’ll hate you. So aren’t we both hiding things to keep her happy? And in my case, it’s a little discipline. I’d say your secret’s much bigger in that sense.”

 

The birds start chirping outside, and the room’s a disgusting grey colour almost matching how he feels. “Maybe I’ll tell her anyway.” It’s spite. She can hate him, but at least she won’t have Max either. He’s equally terrible.

 

Max smiles. He’s _smiling_. “Then maybe she’ll even understand why I had to do all this, and it’ll all cancel out. I don’t see you benefitting from either of those situations, Peter,” he looks to the phone and the door handle, “because she’ll know you’re a liar. And I deal with liars for a living.”

 

It’s—that’s not true. It’s not a secret. He just couldn’t tell her but it wasn’t a secret. 

 

Max takes his gun from the table, and he thinks that the man will just leave, but the other hand lands on his shoulder. It startles him even though he sees it coming. Heavy and firm. It’s drowning him, stopping him from reaching the surface. He only thinks he’s getting close, but that same hand always pushes him back down. “You have more to lose than me.”

 

His throat stings, and he keeps his jaw clenched as he’s pushed back until he’s sitting on his bed, and the hand is still there, keeping him in place. 

 

“And if I take that chance?”

 

He feels his arm being tugged. “Let’s tell her then,” Max is whispering loudly. “Since you never understand what I’m saying in that thick, thick skull—“ the butt of the gun collides with his head, and it isn’t gentle. It’s a hard blow that shakes his head and makes his eyes go starry. “How you made it this far, I’ll never know,” he remarks.

 

His attempt at moving back is thwarted when he tries to remove the hand. Max takes his wrist, “maybe you need some sense knocked in to you,” he says in his ears. “Go to sleep, Peter.”

 

There’s not much choice in that, because it _hurts so bad_ and he’s almost out.

* * *

He gets to school earlier than he needs to. May’s there asleep when he leaves, and she probably has the alarm set to 7:30 to wake up and see him off, but he doesn’t like it there anymore. She’s not a safety net anymore, and bad things still happen when she’s there, blissfully oblivious in the next room.

 

His head stings when he shakes too hard, or when he touches and feels the scab on his scalp. His healing is working and it’ll be gone by the end of the day. He notices the tiny spots of red on his pillow, and it’s fine. _It’s fine. You can hardly see it. Not even that much._

 

The library opens earlier, and for that, he’s glad. He throws his bag recklessly by the chair and sits down, throwing his head down on the table. He’s exhausted. She had to have come home after two, which means that’s four hours of sleep, or less.

 

He doesn’t know how long into his attempted power-nap he is, but the sound of hands slamming loudly on the table startle him, and he sits up, and the jolt of pain wrecks through his head for a long few seconds as he blinks.

 

It’s not the librarian here to tell him to work instead of sleep. It’s MJ.

 

“Where’ve you been?” She asks, and she’s not even trying to sound casual.

 

“I saw you less than a day ago,” he says, but it doesn’t come off as playful. 

 

“You had a black eye less than a day ago. You can’t just air me after that. That guy—“

 

He looks around and stares hard, “ _MJ_ —“

 

“What? Someone might hear your secret?” she asks sarcastically. But he did something bad too, and she’d hate him for it too. She’d ask him why he didn’t call the police before he saw it happen, because he knew enough. He wouldn’t have an answer. She’d leave him too.

 

He sighs and shakes his head in confusion, “how did you even know I was here?” he decides to ask. It’s just nearing eight-fifteen, and he’s only here because he’s afraid of _home_.

 

“Todd told me.”

 

“Todd. Great—whose Todd?”

She glances behind him, and he turns to see a guy with glasses and a checkered shirt staring at the computer screen.

 

“You’re planting spies now?” He asks, and it’s supposed to be a joke, but she’s clearly not in the mood for that.

 

“I know a lot of people.”

 

“I can see.”

 

“This isn’t a joke,” she snaps, sitting down opposite him. “I was scared for you all of last night,” she says, blinking with glassy eyes as she looks to him for an explanation that he can’t give her.

 

“I was fine.”

 

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice nearly cracks, or maybe it does and he doesn’t notice. Too tired to notice. “Why wouldn’t you tell me that after you come in with a black eye?”

 

He stares at her, then to the book display behind her. He would’ve, but that phone. That phone’s already bringing him nothing but trouble, and he hasn’t even used it yet. Imagine where the conversation on there could go, and he’d be totally screwed.

 

“My phone broke—“

 

“Really? You have read receipts on. I can see when it’s delivered, moron.” She’s harsh, and she should be. If one of them did this to him, he’d be equally worried slash pissed all in one. 

 

Now he kind of really wishes he hadn’t signed in on iCloud. “MJ, I’m sorry.”

 

She doesn’t accept, by the look on her face. “You’re keeping things from me. After last summer, I thought we were past that,” she says, shaking her head.

 

He feels like a shitty person. All these people right there, and the more he lies, the more of the need he feels to continue lying, because they’re ‘past’ the point of truth now, right?

 

May will say she knows Max is strict, but she asked him all those times, and he never said a thing. Then she might not believe him. Or she will and break up with her fiancé, but secretly resent him for the rest of their lives, because _he_ let their relationship get that far before deciding to blow it all up just because he decided to test the waters. He _decided_ to let all that happen, and he can’t just stop whenever he wants, because he ruins May’s life with that decision.

 

“Okay,” says MJ, pulling him out of his thoughts as she stands. She looks like she’ll speak, but she just looks so upset. She has the right to be. And she leaves.

 

He runs a tired hand over his face, then turns around to see ‘Todd’ looking at him. 

 

“Sorry. She asked AV Club to tell her if we saw you.”

 

He turns back around. He doesn’t even know who the hell that is. Or whether MJ’s in AV club. Or that ‘AV’ clubs still existed, and that his school had one. He doesn’t know anything.

 

These are things that _he’s_ breaking. He grabs his bag by the strap and gets to his feet, “not cool, Todd,” he says across the table, earning a look from the librarian as he walks out.

 

He finds her in the after-school practice classroom, taking her books out. 

 

“Did you come in early just because Todd told you?” He asks, frowning as he stands at the door.

 

She ignores him, and opens a random page from the textbook, which is why he can tell she’s not actually studying. 

 

“MJ.”

 

Still, she says nothing. He walks in and sits right next to her, staring until she stops looking at the book and starts looking to him. 

 

“What?” 

 

“It’s okay. I’m okay, really.”

 

“Great, Peter. Glad you worked up the courage to say ‘it’s okay’ after fourteen hours,” she dismisses. 

 

He tugs at her arm again like a child looking for attention, and she turns to him again. She’s tired. She’s trying her best, and he’s not reciprocating. He still doesn’t know what or how much she knows.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

 

She looks to him. “What happened yesterday?”

 

He sighs and shrugs, “I just didn’t go on my phone.”

 

“Peter—“

 

“We just—we had a little argument. And that’s all it was. A small argument, and then I was just mad and I didn’t look at my phone the whole night.”

 

“What’d he say?”

 

“Nothing. I’m fine. I am . . . fine. Things are fine.”

 

“That’s a lot of fines for one sentence,” MJ points out, raising her brows. “Why can’t you just tell me? You know I’d never do anything that would hurt you in any way.”

 

He does know that. But also knows she’ll try and interfere in some way if he does, and then everything, including the things he doesn’t want to be, will be out in the open. It’s because he knows she’ll think he can’t handle it, and he totally can, because that’s what he _has_ been doing for months, and _why is it any different now_? In fact, he’s set himself up for doom if he does anything now. The time for speaking up’s gone, and he let it pass - day by day, minute by minute.

 

“I told you everything.”

 

“You _told_ me that Max was—“

 

He leans in, “I’m just—I’m getting adjusted. Why’s that such a big deal?”

 

“Did you lie about the black eye?”

 

He recoils, “no!” he says quickly. “I told you, it was patrol.” Another lie. Slippery slope. He can easily get caught there, but MJ’s not going to go digging up his suit history. 

 

She doesn’t buy it. She takes his hand, “you’re hurting yourself,” she says, forehead creased and eyes narrow, “you’re hurting yourself and I can’t pretend to not notice because that’s as bad as doing it myself.”

 

“You got it wrong.”

 

She purses her lips, and then nods. “Not really.”

 

“Why can’t you just leave it alone? I’m asking you to stop, and you’re—“ his throat goes dry and he leans back, away from her, “—you think this is the same as what happened with your mom. You’re wrong.”

 

“It’s because of what happened with my mom, that I can see you drowning. My hand’s there. Ned’s too, so is May’s. You just won’t take it.”

 

It strikes him fiercely, what she says. He stares and his hands are scrunched up into fists, nails digging into his palms and _can’t you stress out in a . . . more calmer way?_ Tony had asked the first few times he did that, but it was gone. And now it’s back. The fists, the scratching, and they hurt, but he still does it. He doesn’t want to. It doesn’t make him feel better; doesn’t make _anything_ feel better, but he still does it, and most of the time he doesn’t even it until he sees the red or _feels_ the stinging set in.

 

For better or worse, MJ backs off after that. She says less to him the whole day, and Ned notices, so does Peter. He can’t tell if she’s worried or just mad at him. It’s both. He wants to tell them what _he_ did that makes everything sticky now. He wants to tell them that he messed it up for himself after doing what he did, but they’ll judge him and _Spider-Man doing all this good even though you got your uncle killed? God, Peter._.

 

So he lets them worry themselves. They’ll be over it in a few days when he starts feeling better and finds a way to deal with it all. He’ll be fine, and they’ll be over it.

* * *

**’in the middle of nowhere’, 15:48**

“Okay, put it through,” Tony says, sitting back in his chair as the phone rings. He twirls a pen on the table until the other line clicks.

 

“ _Hello?_ ”

 

“Fred. It’s Iron Man, Tony Stark—the guy that made your friend’s suit that you proceeded to hack.”

There’s a gasp, “ _Oh my God, Mr Stark? Hi—hey, what’s—hi! So—so great to meet—to hear—to speak to you on the phone, I’m—_ ”

 

He smiles, “so, how’s school been going for you? Just thought to check in on the kid’s friends. And you’re—friend number one. Also, you’re the only friend whose number I have.”

 

“ _Really? Wow. That’s so cool that you do—have my number, I mean. Um—it’s—it’s good, I guess,_ ” he stammers, and Tony hears someone tell him to put it on speaker in the back.

 

He frowns, “who else is there?”

 

“ _Just—it’s me and MJ. She’s our—_ ”

 

“I know who she is. Actually, it’s convenient that you’re both here. Like I said, just checking in with you both. How’s school? More importantly, how’s Peter been? Any weird things come to mind? He been acting a little off?”

 

“ _Why are you really calling?_ ” A more calm and collected voice responds, and that, he guesses, has to be MJ.

 

“I can see why he likes you,” Tony says, and he doesn’t get the blushing response he expects, just more silence. “Alright. Like I said, I’m just checking in with you. You’re both part of the Spidey business. Gotta make sure we’re all safe and—"

 

“ _No offense, Mr Stark, but you’re not great at lying,_ ” Ned chips in, and he’s—kind of _surprised_ that a bunch of high-school kids are saying that to him. 

 

He moves forwards in his chair, “alright. You gotta promise not to say anything to him. On the count of three we all make a pact.”

 

“ _I’m not promising anything,_ ” MJ says flatly, and he rolls his eyes as he hears Ned on the other end trying to convince her. 

 

“Okay. Let’s just cut to the chase, Two Musketeers, what’s up with his eye? Was it that kid with the weird name?” He stops and thinks, but comes up blank. “Lacrosse? Most importantly, something an adult should know about?”

 

There’s silence, until Ned speaks first. “ _It wasn’t—it didn’t happen at school. Flash’s a dick but he’s not violent_ ,” Ned says, “ _Peter came to school with it. He said it happened during patrol_.”

 

He feels his chest tighten as he sits up. “He didn’t go out as Spider-Man on Tuesday,” Tony says as he stares at the suit’s activity record on the screen in front of him. He lied. He lied to multiple people. Why would he lie? A black eye’s nothing to lie about. Shit happens. 

 

“ _Mr Stark, I don’t know how close you are with him, but have you met Max?_ ”

 

He immediately stops looking at the screen and sits back in his chair.

 

As soon as she asks _that_ question, he knows it’s over. She says that name, and he knows exactly where the black eye came from, even if his mind at that given moment is refusing to accept it. They all know though, right? They all know what’s going on. 

 

“You think it’s him?” He asks, and he really shouldn’t be asking the kids for help on something like this, but they know Peter. They’re the only ones who do, and if there’s something here, he needs all the help he can get. 

 

“ _I do._ ”

 

He notices that Ned doesn’t say anything. 

 

“ _I do, and—he’s in trouble. He comes in with a black eye and today he came to school two hours early and he pretty much asleep the whole time. He’s in trouble,_ ” she says, and he swears he hears her voice crack as she speaks. “ _If you can, you have to help him. And you can tell him I said that. His safety’s more important than his privacy and he’s not the grownup he thinks he is. We’re not grownups. He can’t handle that._ ”

 

Scratch what he said before. _Now_ he can see why Peter likes her so much. Rightly so. She’s right. She reminds him a little of Pepper. She’s Peter’s Pepper. And everyone needs a Pepper for this exact reason.

 

“Okay,” he manages to say. Of all the things that could go wrong in his life, he never expected this to be one of them. Didn’t ever expect to be calling two high-schoolers for help on something that should never happen to kids, ever. “I’m taking care of it. I’ll look into it and you two just stay put. I’ll keep you updated and you both don’t tell him I called you just yet.”

 

“ _Uh huh, of course,_ ” says MJ, and Ned has almost disappeared from the conversation altogether. He can appreciate that it’s a lot to throw onto them, because they’re just like Peter; young and innocent. They shouldn’t be dealing with this. 

 

“Alright. Tell Ned to not worry so much. If there’s anything there, then I’ve got it handled. Don’t do anything rash,” he says, and then hangs up. 

 

“You’ve gotta be especially evil to do that to a kid,” he says into the air. Then he looks up. “Fri, you think we can link up with Karen?”

 

“ _Of course. What would you like to know?_ ”

 

“How—where’s he been going? Anything out of the ordinary? Has he said anything to Karen?”

 

“ _You already have access to his suit’s locations. He deployed a drone two days ago at 3:41 in the afternoon. I can’t disclose his conversations._ ”

 

“You know I’m doing it for a good cause,” Tony argues, rubbing his forehead as he sits back again. “It’s for a good cause,” he says to himself. 

 

“ _They’re confidential, boss._ ” 

 

He knows that. He knows that already – he designed the damn thing. “What about the drone? Where was it deployed?”

 

“ _In his room for lookout._ ”

 

He perks up, “in his room. To lookout for what?”

 

“ _That’s confidential._ ”

 

“Anything not confidential that might be a case-breaker?” He asks hopelessly. Stupid little clues.

 

“ _He showed Karen a phone with spy software installed._ ”

 

“Great. And who would Peter be spying on?”

 

“Boss, that’s—”

 

“Confidential. Yeah, got it. Thanks for nothing. You remind yourself and Karen that all dangerous situations take precedent over the illusion of privacy, please,” he says, almost angry. But he can’t be. Friday’s not doing anything wrong.

 

He sits back, dejected, because he hasn’t gotten anywhere with anything yet, and where does he even start? Maybe talk to May. He should talk to her. She spends more time with him, she’ll know what’s wrong, if anything is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unrelated but I read it can take it as little as three hours to get someone to remember something they never did :o
> 
> . I was considering Max finding out about Spider-Man but I’d like to think he’s not smart enough to figure that out and plus he sucks 
> 
> Also I really, really, appreciate all of those amazing and lovely comments you all leave which I read and reread because they make me so happy?!!!
> 
>  
> 
> this one might’ve been a little boring (I rewrote it about a hundred times) but I set it up for the good stuff so stay around for the next chapter :)


	7. and she won’t love him anymore

“Who, exactly?”

 

“ _Uh, I’m getting in around four, and Peter’s home all day as far as I know. Max should be on his shift. Not sure the exact time.”_

 

He wonders whether he should bring it up, but it’s such a sensitive topic, and should it really be discussed over the phone? What if he offends her? Makes her upset? Accuses her of something that isn’t true?

 

He nods instead to the air, “alright. And it’s okay if I drop by?”

 

“ _Uh huh, that’s great. He missed yesterday too. He’s really been . . . off? I was gonna say busy but he’s—yesterday he left so early and I don’t know, maybe it’s just teenager-stuff but maybe it’s not. He won’t tell me. Maybe he’ll tell you, or Max, but you two are closer, and I don’t mean to make you—_ “

 

“May. That’s why I’m going over there. Don’t worry. You have fun saving lives.”

 

She groans in response, “ _yeah. You two have fun_.”

 

He hangs up, then wonders if he should call ahead. He decides not to do that, mostly to avoid the string of excuses Peter no doubt has ready.

* * *

“I don’t think it’s possible to hate someone as much as I hate _you_ right now, Peter.”

 

He doesn’t say anything. Was that a question? Something to be answered? What does he even say to that? 

 

“What did you say to her? Is it because of the door? Because you know full well that you made me do that,” he says, and he doesn’t sound normal.

 

He sounds like he’s rabid. Sounds like he’ll snap, or already has, and like he’s about to start smashing everything in his way.

 

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything,” he says defensively, voice going high, and his statement should go without saying. If he told her anything, Max wouldn’t be standing here right now, and he should know that, considering…everything May said to him literally this morning.

 

“Bullshit,” Max spews, slamming his phone down on the counter. 

 

“You—you don’t have to be here all day. You’re her boyfriend. You’re not my dad, you’re not Ben, but you’re still here _all_ the time and—“

 

Max’s hands flies in the air, striking the two glasses sitting next to the sink onto the floor, and he flinches hard. Then Max starts to walk, crunching the glass under his shoes until he stands opposite the table, clenched jaw and fists made. 

 

Peter pushes the chair back and stands up, stumbling around it when he approaches. 

 

The hands reach for him, and Peter quickly pushes back, but his arms—why are they shaking so much? They’re shaking and it’s like they’re made of paper, but he still pushes with everything he has. Max’s head whips back before he realises what he’s done, just as he sees the blood.

 

 _Shit. Shit, shit, shit_.

 

“Max—“

 

He didn’t mean to. He really didn’t. And he opens his mouth to tell him that, but the fist hits his cheek without warning. Well, there’s a warning in the blaring senses somewhere, but it’s constant around Max, because Max is _always_ danger.

 

His head hits the pillar, and he shuts his eyes so tight that he feels the tears line under his eyes. 

 

 _So much pain_.

 

The callous hand holds him in place again as he gasps—can’t breathe properly. His chest hitches, and he _can’t breathe_ because there’s panic and dizziness and there was supposed to be no next time or anyone home right now.

 

Peter’s fingers wrap tightly around Max’s arms, and he has to be causing pain too, because he can feel both his hands shake with the pressure that he’s clenching with.

 

His hands move up to the chest—neck, just trying to push back, and it works. 

 

Max staggers back, but only because he’s bleeding. He’s bleeding, and Peter did that.

 

There’s blood dripping to the floor and on the guy’s light blue shirt, and he’s probably broken the nose. Max wipes with his hand, and if it’s possible, looks even more furious than he did before.

 

 _He’s bleeding._

 

They both breathe heavily, and Max swears and curses under his breath and Peter still feels so bad as the man disappears into May’s room. He looks to his room, but _there’s no lock. There’s no lock!_

 

He reaches for the back of his neck and scratches. He should tell May. He should call her. 

 

He reaches for his phone in his pocket, freezing for a second at the sight of half-dried blood on his knuckles. He unlocks it shakily, fingers trembling and eyes unknowingly glancing towards the room where he expects Max to emerge from any second.

 

His fingers fumble, and the phone almost slips from his hand. He curses under his breath as he tries to scroll through the contacts.

 

“ _Clean it up, Peter!_ ” Max yells from inside. He sounds stressed. Is he stressed that he’ll get caught? He _should_ get caught. And his mind reminds him that _you made a mistake but this is worse. This is worse!_

 

He calls, pressing the phone to his ear. It takes too long. She answers, first telling her that she’s kind of busy, _is it anything important?_

 

“May, there’s—May—” the words just disappear from the tip of his tongue, and he breathes loud and heavy as he watches the man walk. May’s asking questions in his ear. “May—”

 

_what’s going on, Peter? Just tell her, Peter, it’s not that damn hard to say a few words, Peter, she’s right here and she’s listening!_ His mouth feels dry and hot and everything feels wrong.

 

“Peter—“ the deep voice freezes, and his eyes shift to him. He stands there at May’s door, and they both stare as he approaches, and then his phone is being snatched away. 

 

“Tell her you’ll call back,” says Max, right into his ear. 

 

A frown forms between his eyebrows, and feels the screen, way too hot and sticky, pressed to his ear again. “Nothing,” he answers her concerns, “I’m—fine. May, I’m fine and I’ll call you back? Alright?”

 

All Peter can focus on is the changed shirt color and the detective badge sitting proudly on the belt. He forgets. He forgets that this man is supposed to be helping people, not terrorizing them.

 

He’s dead, he thinks. He crossed the line that Max very intricately drew and now the only thing here is rage, anger and danger. Would he do that? He’s a detective, he could probably get away with murder. He could say there was an intruder and alter the CCTV with his detective friends like they do in the TV shows and maybe he’d get caught a few years down the line but by then Peter would be dead. May would’ve moved on. Max might’ve even told her what he did and then she wouldn’t even feel so bad about him dying and— 

 

He inhales and still can’t find the courage to look up into Max’s eyes. And no ones speaking. _He’s planning on killing you._

 

His fingers start to tingle, and it feels like they’re numb as the phone slips, landing with a loud thud on the floor. He looks down, and he can’t pick it up. He can’t reach down—he just can’t. His eyes go in and out of focus and everything’s blaring and he can hear every thing. Multiple heartbeats, his own blood gushing in his ears, sound of the elevator dinging outside—someone stepping out.

 

His heart races, and he starts to gasp for air, reaching for his chest, then clawing at his neck, trying to pull the sweater away because _it’s stopping me from breathing_ and—and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this. 

 

Max’s eyes are cold when he looks up, desperate for help.

 

His legs feel weird, and suddenly, it’s like they stop working, and he starts slipping, trying to grasp at Max, who stands there and then slowly lowers him onto the floor.

 

 _Panic attack. It’s a panic attack. Maybe a heart attack._ He’s never had a panic attack before, not after Toomes, not even the Snap, so he doesn’t know what either of them feel like. It feels like death, straggling for air and hands shaking - fingers paralysed and _not enough air going in_.

 

The hand’s back, wrapping around the back of his neck and turning his head, and his fingers scratch at it in a failed attempt to get if off, but he can’t even feel most of his fingers, and it doesn’t work.

 

“It isn’t in you to fight back.”

 

His fingers twitch, and he can’t see properly anymore. He tries to count, and his fingers look like big, round blobs of skin before they’re held firmly by Max.

 

“That help you? _Ground_ you?” Max’s voice, distorted, sounds in his ears. “What if you can’t see them?”

 

He can’t see them. He can’t see anything, because nothing looks real anymore. Like a dream.

 

“Let’s go.” He looks up, and Max’s face is close as his arm is tugged harshly like he’s a rag doll. “I don’t have time for this.”

 

His face feels hot. It’s panic and embarrassment, and everything in between. What good are superpowers when you can’t save yourself? 

 

“I can’t—I can’t breathe,” he stammers, trying to grasp onto something because he feels like he’s fading. He doesn’t want to go anywhere else. He wants to stay here, but his mind won’t let him and he’s . . . _disconnected_. It feels like death. It feels like he’s fading _again_ and this time it isn’t as quick. This time, there isn’t anyone holding him and telling him _it’ll be okay_ , even when it isn’t, and if he dies here, who will bring him back?

 

He moves his fingers, staring so hard through the tears that he can see double, but he needs to make sure they’re there. They won’t go away again. They won’t disappear into nothing and he can almost _feel_ that pain creeping up again. 

 

Everything is echoing in his ears, really clearly and all at once. The neighbour downstairs saying _I got it for you because I love you_ and the equally excited squeals in response, the footsteps outside of someone leaving the elevators, the TV next door blaring at full volume while utensils clank under running water and—and a knock at their door. 

 

He doesn’t realise that his other hand is gripping Max’s arm until it’s grabbed and pushed away. Max is gone. He’s gone, but his heartbeat is there, along with another. He wishes—no, he _needs_ it to be May. She can help. She can make sure he doesn’t go because she’d never leave him. She’ll pull him back. 

 

“Sorry, I’m busy,” Max’s voice interrupts loudly.

 

His heart sinks and hopes shatter into a million pieces like the glass he sees in the distance. It’s not her. _It’s not her_. 

 

“ _Just came to see the kid._

 

Just came to see him. And a moment later, Max let’s out a surprised chuckle. “ _Mr Stark._ ” A pause. Hesitation, heart fluttering in nervousness. _”I would call him, he’s just not home. I was actually leaving myself, I’ll walk you out_ ,” he says, and _Mr Stark won’t buy that, right?_ but he seems to, because the door shuts a few seconds later, and there’s no fight or struggle from Mr Stark arguing _I know he’s here_. There’s nothing. 

 

He sniffles, realising he can breathe. He can breathe again. His chest isn’t killing him anymore, and even though the heart’s still racing, he’s _here_. That unfounded fear of dying, wherever it came from, is gone. He’s here, and he’s okay. The dread is there, but that’s not new. 

 

He rests back against the wall, breathing heavily as he curls and uncurls his fingers, which are also there. Everything’s there. He’s fine. Right?

* * *

“Sorry, I’m busy,” the man dismisses as soon as the door opens, and he doesn’t even seem to look twice as he begins to push the door shut again.

 

Tony takes the cap off. “Just came to see the kid,” he shrugs in response, and the guy stops midway, eyes widening and the typical process of realisation. 

 

Max says his name, proceeds to tell him he’s leaving, which is strange because wasn’t he just in the middle of something? “I’ll walk you out,” he offers, and the door shuts as Tony nods, because what else is there to do?

 

“You’re Max?” Tony asks as they turn the other way, narrowing his eyes. He spots the red around his wrist, the _wild_ in his eyes, rage subsiding on his miserable face. His nose looks injured—way too red. Maybe broken. “May’s soon-to-be fiancé, right? Or already fiancé? You alright? Look a little beaten up.”

 

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. You’re—Iron Man,” he huffs a laugh, “It’s good, just—you know, just had a fight with a friend last night. Can’t believe you’re here though.”

 

Tony nods with his signature smirk, “uh huh, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

“Really?” Max asks, and the look in his eyes begins to fade. “From Peter?”

 

“Yep. He’s really—” he can’t lie, so he doesn’t finish the sentence, “—told me you’re really trying to help him keep his grades up. And he appreciates it. You know how hard the transition for kids can be with something like this.”

 

Max nods, “yeah, well, just trying my hardest to keep them both happy. And I know how tough the world is. I know how smart he is, and if he keeps it up, he’s gonna do amazing.”

 

“Don’t we all know it,” he nods. “How’s the bond-building going? I know he can be a little . . . what’s the word—“

 

“Annoying? Careless?” Max laughs. 

 

Tony turns and stares. That—definitely not words he’d ever use talking about Peter. “Yeah? In what way?” He asks, adding a smile to keep it casual. This isn’t an interrogation. Just a friendly chat. _This is sensitive,_ Pepper told him, and he’s not going to be the one who blows everything up because he couldn’t keep himself in check.

 

Max shrugs as he presses down on the elevator. “The usual, y’know, breaking curfews, talking back, even broke his phone on Wednesday.”

 

“Really?” he asks, confused and sure that Max is talking about someone else. “The curfew thing—I told May. And we drop him off so safety’s guaranteed.”

 

“I know, but we make one exception, how many more do we make?” Max asks as they get inside. 

 

“Right,” Tony says, waiting for the elevator ride to be over. 

 

Max turns his head and sighs, “look, man, I’m sorry if you—if that offended you. That wasn’t my intention. I’m just trying to keep him safe. He’s a good kid.”

 

He notices the badge on the belt. “You’re a cop.”

 

“Detective actually,” Max nods proudly. “We’re lucky to have you looking out for him,” he smiles, and it’s almost sincere. _Almost_. Or maybe that’s his paranoia. This doesn’t look like a bad guy. 

 

They get out of the elevator, make it to the door when Max stops. “It’s a tough world. Especially in this city, and I’m just trying to make it work for him. Sorry for the—“ he waves his fingers in the air, “—I speak like an idiot sometimes. I’ll see you around, man.”

 

Tony nods, and everything is so conflicting right now. “I didn’t catch your last name,” he says as Max is about to go.

 

“Delfino,” Max smiles again, then he’s walking down the street.

 

And Tony’s walking back into the building, because Peter’s meant to be upstairs and he can’t take a shady detective’s word for it. 

 

A few minutes later, he’s in the clear, and he steps out into the hallway once the elevator doors close. _Weirdo._

 

He knocks on the door – waits for it to swing open and confirm that everything’s alright. It doesn’t. He knocks again. “You know I can get in if I really wanted to, at the risk of sounding like a total creep. I know you’re inside. Open the door!”

 

He waits a minute, then turns to see an elderly woman standing with a bewildered look in her eyes. “Who are you?” She asks, horrified. 

 

He smiles quickly, “Tony—Iron Man? You know? Big superhero? Iron Man? Probably seen that big painting outside with my face—”

 

“I am calling the police, you wait right there, young man,” she says, and is about to go back inside, and he looks back to the door and then to her in a panic.

 

“Wait. Wait! He knows me. I work with him, you can—I’ll call his—”

 

“I know people like you. Terrorizing and stealing. You can explain it to the police why you were about to kidnap a little child—”

 

“Wait! Miss! Ma’am, I’m not! I’m—"

 

The door opens, and there’s Peter, looking breathless as he looks down the corridor. He can see a discolored bruise forming near his cheek, and tears in his eyes and _he’s been crying_. He opens his mouth instantly but is cut off by Peter.

 

“Mrs Diaz! He’s fine! He’s—” he looks to Tony, voice cracking multiple times as he sighs and clears his throat, “—May’s—he’s her friend! She sent him,” he stammers, and he’s having difficulty trying to talk, because his voice is on edge and he sounds like he’ll start crying any second now.

 

“Boy, if he’s causing trouble—”

 

“He’s not. He’s not,” he gives her a small laugh, but sounds tired. “It’s fine. You can go back inside, Mrs Diaz, it’s alright. Please don’t call the police,” he smiles, but nothing’s alright.. 

 

With a suspicious frown, she looks to Tony, who raises his brows and purses his lips.

 

“I won’t. But with all that yelling and fighting, someone oughta,” she says as she slowly turns back around, “like a boxing match in there when your poor Aunt’s not home,” she mumbles as she closes the door.

 

Peter curses under his breath, and Tony stands there like he’s just hit a deer in the middle of the road. More than anything, he looks like he’s very, very badly panicking. “Sorry, she’s—you can—why are you here?” he asks, exhaling loudly, “’Coz you didn’t need to come,” he says between breaths and gives the fakest laugh he can conjure, “I could’ve—you could’ve called or something.” 

 

He’s speakink, or rambling, to be more precise, but neither of them knows what he’s trying to say. Tony feels like he’s seconds away from punching the wall or having a breakdown.

 

“Kid, stop talking.”

 

Tony takes a big breath and steps inside, slamming the door shut and breathing in sharply as he looks around. He catches Peter, who looks like he’s been caught red-handed in a murder with the way he’s shifting.

 

He steps around the pillar and frowns. “What the hell happened here?” The words leave his mouth involuntarily as soon as sees the the glass shards, which seem to be everywhere. “What—why did that guy say you’re not home?” 

 

 _Stupid_. He knows why Detective Max Delfino said Peter’s not home. He doesn’t need a detective to put two and two together, which in this case are the broken glass and Peter’s face.

 

Peter doesn’t look shocked, or surprised, or even panicked now. He just looks upset. “No—”

 

“If you say ‘nothing one more time, I’m gonna lose it,” he looks at Peter and steps forwards as the teen steps back, and he feels so terrible that he’s doing that, but he’s so angry, “I am really about to lose it, Peter, go—” he presses his fingers together in the air, “go look at yourself in the mirror.” His voice cracks. “You see that?”

 

Peter instantly reaches for his cheekbone, where the bruise is forming and rubs softly. “I’m fine,” he says, dejected, leaning against the cupboard. Black eye. _Black eye._ Did he miss that? How did he miss that? He did miss it and now they’re here again.

 

The kid is dejected as he sits on the chair, looking ashamed and _exhausted_. Now he feels like a monster, standing tall like the typical scolding parent, but he’d never do that. He puts his hands on Peter’s shoulders, and the kid is almost stoic with his head hanging low. He pulls Peter in, and he feels so small with his head resting against his chest. He kisses the puff of hair and looks down at him. 

 

With one hand resting on Peter’s head, the boy looks up, eyes glassy. “I don’t—I didn’t know what—” he shakes his head, and the tremble in his voice is enough for him to be pulled back into the embrace.

 

“It’s okay,” Tony tells him, even though it’s not. It’ll never be okay. “You’re alright,” he says. “I’m calling Aunt May.”

 

Peter quickly looks up. “No!”

 

“No? _No_? That guy, double your age—“

 

“You saw him. I got him back. I was just—overwhelmed and—“

 

“Right, overwhelmed. You’re not meant to get him back. You got him back because you’re strong. What if you weren’t?”

 

Peter stares. “If I wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

 

Tony opens his mouth and shuts it when he clams up because that’s not technically wrong. “Maybe—”

 

“Maybe? Definitely. You’re only here because you saw a video of me stopping a stupid bus. You really think we would’ve ever met if I wasn’t also Spider-Man?”

 

“No. You’re right. We wouldn’t have. But we did, because you are. Because there are no hypotheticals. All of this happened,” he says.

 

Peter purses his lips and looks down at the glass, flushed, “don’t tell her.”

 

“You know I have to. That man’s crazy, and he’s dangerous for both of you. This could’ve easily been some other mom and her kid, and that kid wouldn’t fight it off with super strength,” he shakes his head, “and you’re not—I’m—I’m somewhere between angry and upset that you thought or _think_ you can handle something like this just because you have super strength, because that’s not what this is about.”

 

“It is.”

 

“It’s really not. He’s a psycho.”

 

“I hit him first. He just got mad.”

 

Tony frowns. “I don’t care. He’s a grown man, and grownups know not to hit kids.”

 

He shrugs, “I’m not a little kid—you keep saying kid like I’m defenceless and stupid. I’m seventeen. I’m seventeen, I’m not—I’m not a kid.”

 

“You’re her kid. You’re my kid. You can grow up all you like, you’ll be our kid. But I’ll humour you because for legal purposes, no, you’re still not an adult. You’re a kid. Now, why’d you hit him?”

 

He pushes and he’s going to push until he gets an answer. Peter doesn’t get angry. He definitely doesn’t go around hitting people knowing his strength and what it can do. But here he is, saying that that is exactly what he did.

 

“I—I just got mad and—I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t’ve pushed and y’know sometimes people get defensive quickly and they can—”

 

“Why’d you get mad?”

 

Peter’s gaze falters, and he looks away. 

 

“Look at me.”

 

He’s frowning intensely, and he’s clenching his jaw so tightly that Tony can see his head shake, but he still can’t stop the eyes from tearing up. His hands instinctively move to the back of his neck, and he starts scratching. The tick’s back. He’s known it all these months— _seen_ it all those months.

 

Tony reaches forwards and stops him from doing that, because that was never healthy, and no matter how many times Peter says ‘it’ll heal in five minutes’, he hates that out of all the coping mechanisms to exist, Peter’s one hurts him. 

 

“You never get mad at me,” Tony says, desperately trying to get an answer. Anything. “I joke at you. Make fun of you. You never get mad at me. Never even said anything let alone hurt me. What’s special about that guy? What did he do that made you so angry?”

 

Peter blinks, and he stares into the distant – anywhere and everywhere except at Tony as the tears form. He still won’t speak.

 

“I’ll stay here all day,” Tony says, still standing in front of him. “Kid, talk to me. You used to tell me these things,” he says, and up till a week ago, he thought that nothing had changed, when everything had.

 

“You can’t tell her,” Peter says finally, looking up at him. 

 

“I won’t,” he lies quickly. And it’s definitely a lie. No question about it. This is too serious to hide from May, and he’s no position to be keeping things from her about something as sensitive as this.

 

“I think—I made this into a bigger deal than it is,” Peter admits a second later. “He said that May—” he stops, and it’s not sadness, it’s pain and shame. 

 

“What?”

 

“He was saying I spend so much money, but—” he shakes his head, “May never said anything about that,” and Tony hates how defensive he sounds justifying himself on something he should never need to, “I thought—I don’t know. I don’t know—I didn’t know my parents but Ben and May, they’re—she’s—" his voice cracks, and his face scrunches up. He can’t finish. 

 

Tony already hates where this is going, and he can tell where it’s going with the few broken words that Peter manages to say.

 

He bends down on one knee, looking up at him with eyes that reflect trust and trust only. It’s a child. He has to do this right.

 

“They’re gone,” Peter says as he meets Tony’s eyes for the first time. “She’s—I know she wasn’t—she’s not _related_ related to me because she married Ben, but I still thought we were—I love her. I love her, Mr Stark, and—” he sniffles, and his sentence stops when he gets the words mixed up because he’s talking so fast.

 

Tony just stares dumbfoundedly. “What did he say about her? Just tell me what he said,” he says, and at the moment, he doesn’t think he’s ever handled something so _delicate_ before. Should he even be the one doing it? He has to though, right? He’s the one here. And everything’s about to fall apart, and he has to do it right.

 

Peter frowns. “I’m here because she feels really bad for me and she was too nice to give me up after Ben—“

 

“Alright. Stop. Stop,” he says, and he _feels_ his heart melt and twist – something stings in his chest when he hears those words as he stands. “Why—” he doesn’t know what he’s asking. Why Max said that? Why no one knew about it?

 

What happens when you tell a kid that one of the only people he’s ever loved, who has taught _him_ to love, never actually loved _him_? His only constant up till now cared for him, and provided for him, but it wasn’t love, Max told him. His own heart hurts, but Peter’s is shattered. 

 

“I don’t—I don’t know what—” he exhales loudly, and shakes. And he’s crying. He’s crying, and Tony’s wrapping his own arms around him again, shushing him and barely holding it together to hear the hitches as he puts a hand on Peter’s head, “—I miss him and I don’t know what I’m doing—” and he breaks again.

 

“I know, I know. It’s okay,” His heart races wildly as he stands there, and the only thing he can think of is that _it’s just a kid_. And who says that stuff to a kid knowing everything he’s lost already?

 

He looks ahead at where the sun rays hit the odd glass sitting at the counter, and the orange hue of the room makes everything look surreal. What does he do? He looks down at the top of Peter’s head, a ruffled mess of golden brown.

 

“You know he’s wrong,” Tony says afterwards, and he slowly lifts Peter’s head off. Kind of wishes he hadn’t because it makes everything that much harder to say looking at the bloodshot eyes and face of pure heartbreak. 

 

Peter doesn’t seem to acknowledge what he says, or when Tony pushes his hand through his hair and moves away from him. He sits on the sofa, then looks up to Peter, still sitting on the edge and sniffling. “Kid, c’m’here.”

 

He doesn’t move, just shakes his head a little.

 

“Peter,” he says, voice strained, pleading.

 

Peter gets to his feet, turning around and rubbing his face with his hands as he sighs.

 

Tony pats on the sofa seat by him, and he sits down, glaring at the floor before running a hand over his face again, and he can tell Peter’s still crying.

 

He moves closer, because Peter clearly won’t, and extends his arm around Peter’s shoulder, nudging him towards himself slightly. 

 

It’s only when his head’s resting against the shoulder that he hears how uneven his breathing still is, and he can almost hear the heart thudding.

 

“He’s wrong,” Tony says again, resting his own head on top of Peter’s, “and the only reason he’d say any of that is because he knows how important you are to her, and he doesn’t like it. That’s why he said all that—he made it all up.”

 

He’s doing something wrong, because he hears another hitch and Peter tremble as he lifts his hand to his face again, rubbing harshly and he’s probably tired of the burst of _everything_ that he’s worked hard to keep under the wraps just out here in the open.

 

“Alright, look at me.”

 

Peter listens, even if he does it in the middle of possibly the worst moment of his life, because he always listens. He’s a good— _great_ kid, who never did nothing to deserve this, ever – not the insults and lies, or the bruise on his cheekbone, which makes him rage every time he sees it.

 

“She loves you. Not because she feels like she has to, it’s because she does, just like everyone who knows you does,” he says, and even though Peter nods, it doesn’t look like he agrees. “There isn’t a name for someone who does something like this to a kid,” he says with a frown.

 

Peter blinks and breathes shakily.

 

“I know . . . ” he sighs, “you think he loves her—”

 

“He does,” Peter says, voice barely audible.

 

“No, he doesn’t,” Tony tells him, tilting his head, “because it can’t start and end with just her,” he says in a tone that’s only trying to make him understand what Peter hasn’t been able to for months and months. “It’s not love if he’s willing to hurt the person _she_ loves. Not when he can say those things to you without a second thought.”

 

“You can’t tell anyone.”

 

“Peter—”

 

“He’ll—he knows things and he’ll tell her—“

 

“You’re sixteen. What could he possibly be holding over you?” then he thinks and realises— “he doesn’t know that you’re—because May already knows and—“

 

“No. No, he doesn’t. I don’t think so, anyway.”

 

Tony shrugs. “Then?”

 

For a second it looks like Peter’s about to tell him the big bad secret that Max, of all people, knows. But then he looks away again.

 

“I’m telling you now it’s not as bad as you think.”

 

“It is.”

 

“Tell me.”

 

“I don’t—I don’t want to.”

 

“I’m phoning her right now.”

 

“No—“

 

“You realise I can’t just leave you here.”

 

“I need time to—“

 

“That’s too bad, because you don’t have any time left. You handling it the past few months? That wasn’t ‘handling’ it, that was--I don’t know what it was. But it wasn’t working. You tell me now or you tell May.”

 

“I can’t tell her! She’ll—she’ll _hate_ me if she finds out and I can’t—I’m not—“

 

“Alright,” Tony straightens up. “I’ll go grab our buddy Max for a chat and maybe he can give it to me straight.”

 

Peter clenches his jaw and looks down, and there’s only guilt that if this is something he thinks can take May away from her, then he has to ask himself if he seriously just blackmailed an already traumatised 

 

“Pete—“

 

“I went to . . . “ he frowns as his eyes go glassy again, and he starts avoiding eye contact again. And before Tony can apologise, he starts talking again. “That shop down the road—the one with the blue sign. Del’s Corner.”

 

Tony nods, even though Peter isn’t looking at him. 

 

“I was angry and—like right outside the shop, there were these two guys. Eighteen or nineteen, taking stuff out of their bag and all nervous because I could hear the heartbeats and I didn’t realise I was—I didn’t realise I was changing and I was _angry_. And they were saying they were going to rob the store,” he shrugs, and then stops talking altogether, just staring down at the floor. “I didn’t care. Didn’t even warn the cashier because I thought . . . that’s not my problem.”

 

Tony purses his lips together and takes Peter’s shoulders, “that wasn’t on you. That was on those the two douches who decided to do it.”

 

“I didn’t do anything. Such a stupid thing to think,” Peter continues, as if he hasn’t heard Tony talk. “And then, they’re running away from the store and Ben’s standing there with ten dollars in his hands telling me to get ice cream with him even though it was _my_ fault and _I_ was the one who ran away and then they just . . . they killed him. I was there and they killed him over some money. And it wasn’t even—not even that much money, y’know? It wasn’t a lot of money.” He breathes loudly and his eyes are lost in the haze of that scarring memory. 

 

“You never told her?”

 

He frowns and looks up. “I meant to. I just—that was a shitty thing I did that got her _husband_ killed and I hate me for doing that and I know she will too. She loved him. She loved him a lot.”

 

“So did you. You underestimate her,” Tony says, looking down pitifully. “What you did—or didn’t do—that isn’t going to be the reason she ever, ever thinks that what that man’s doing is okay. He’s a blackmailer, and he uses his power for all the wrong reasons. She’ll see that.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter says, then shakes his head, “or she might realise he’s right and that she doesn’t actually want to stay with me when I’m the reason she’s alone and has to work more. I’d be pretty angry if someone did that to me. You would be too.”

 

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Would you be angry if you were in May’s place and _your_ kid came to you with that? Because I can tell you what my answer is.”

 

He shrugs in response, sagging his shoulders with a sad sigh. “I can’t tell her.”

 

“I’ll be with you when you do, alright?

 

He looks around the mess of a living room again and then to Peter’s room, “why don’t you go rest? I’ll stay until she comes home.”

 

Peter looks too tired to argue, and nods as he disappears into his room, tapping his door lightly behind him. 

 

Tony sighs heavily, then looks down at his phone as he calls May.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh this is very late but I love all your comments and I’m so so happy when I read them 
> 
> man this took me such a long time to write and i feel like it’s all over the place near the ending and the switches so sorry for that 
> 
> man I was hyped for this though and when I first wrote it, I imagined it proper emotional but now I’ve read it too many times so plz tell me how it was in your head, first time reading it


	10. ski masks

_The next hour passes by in a huff. His eyes are focused hazily on the ground and glasses being so annoying—and—and he can’t see properly!_

_“—and out. It’s a five minute job!”_

_He looks to his right as he comes to a stop. Two guys, maybe in their late teens, standing with a bag shared among them, and sounding completely freaked out._

_They put the ski masks over their faces, looking at the backdoor as they nod to themselves._

_“Don’t do anything stupid.”_

_“Your face is stupid,” the other one says, and then they’re getting ready to bust through._

_He stands there and stares, frowning in contemplation. And he decides, something which he’d regret for probably the rest of his life, that _it’s not my problem_. With that, he carries on walking, and maybe the screaming in the distant is in his head, because he can’t hear that far, right? He’s quite a bit down the road, and he can’t really be hearing all that shouting and crying all the way down there._

_He stops with a heavy sigh next to the bus stop, looking down the roads and hanging his head down low._

_Ben is already there, waking down with a look of relief straight towards him, and he can tell he’s been spotted._

_When his uncle starts shouting his name, he moves back into the alley, sure to only continue once he knows that Ben has seen him, because there’s a part of him wanting for Ben to come and persuade him, even though he’s realising he’s the one whose wrong._

_“I’m sorry, Ben—“_

_“Don’t say another word,” Ben says, out of breath, as he catches up with Peter. They’re not that far down. He can see the bus stop, even hear the conversations and chatter. “God, you really know to give a scare.”_

_Peter stares. Doesn’t respond._

_“I get it. You think you’re older. All grown up. You’re fourteen, Pete, and you’re my kid. _Our_ kid. It was—what even set you off?”_

_He opens his mouth to reply, but his mind goes blank. What set him off? He can’t even remember and it was only fifteen minutes ago._

_Ben reaches into his pockets, and Peter noticed the streetlights above the bus stop flicker on dimly. “Let’s get a McFlurry and call it a day.”_

_Peter huffs a laugh. “Why are you always so nice to me? Today—this was _my_ fault.”_

_“I can’t.” Ben says, and Peter rolls his eyes as his uncle quickly speaks up, “I mean I really can’t. You always apologise before I can start getting mad you,” he laughs, “which kinda defeats the purpose of getting mad, which is making sure you know where you went wrong,” he smacks his lips, “which you always do.”_

_Peter frowns, then shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”_

_“I heard you. Already forgiven,” Ben says as he turns around, “come on.”_

_“—stop! Stop!”_

_He looks around, startled by the sudden noise. Ben is slower to turn, but when he does, he instantly lifts his hands in the air and blocks off Peter’s view by moving in front._

_He hears the footsteps get closer and feels his heart thud loudly, because he doesn’t know what’s going on in the moment, but it’s bad. It’s bad. Ben is yelling loudly, at or about him._

_“Just take my wallet!” He hears, and freezes when the masked face appears, meeting his eyes for a split second as he shakes behind Ben. The eyes disappear, and it takes a couple more seconds before Ben is shouting that he has _nothing else!__

_There’s a sudden surge of yelling and screaming, from Ben and the masked guy that Peter can see who is standing still._

_Then a deafening sound cuts through the air, and everything goes silent. His ears ring with a high pitched tone, and then Ben is on the floor._

_He breathes, feels himself choke on his own breath when he realises what’s happened. He doesn’t move, just stands there with tears falling and ears not functioning. Ben’s lips are moving, probably asking him to help or call someone, but he can’t move._

_He lifts his hand to his ear, and there’s something wet there, which he’d later find to be blood._

_Calling 911 isn’t the hard part, it’s waiting. He calls, and though he can barely hear what the options are, he manages to place the call before putting the phone down and bending down next to his uncle, placing his shaking hand on top of the bleeding that he can’t possibly hope to stop by himself._

_Ben’s still speaking, nodding with a smile, possibly offering some last words of wisdom or hope, or maybe he’s asking for help or literally anything else because Peter can’t hear those words._

_He inhales sharply and his eyes open to the carpet, and someone talking outside. Mr Stark on the phone._

 

“— _I would. I would call it an emergency, yeah._ ” Tony’s voice cuts through his waking nightmare, and he fidgets, then closes his eyes again in frustration. He missed the conversation, and what May might’ve said. Did she hear what Max did and say it wasn’t something to come home for? Or maybe he didn’t tell her everything yet. “ _I hate to say this, because you know, I never got why people delayed saying things on the phone, but—I can’t say all of it on the phone, and I know you’re worried, but I’ll explain as soon as you get here. And Peter’s fine. He’s sleeping_ —” the voice stops, and Peter imagines Tony looking towards his room. “— _I’ll see you soon_.”

 

He can hear Tony’s heart racing outside in the living room, and he wants to go to him and say it’s alright, because he’s been doing that for all this time so easily, but now he feels like there’s something weighing him down – a huge weight on his chest.

 

He lays there, clutching a pillow in his arms as he stares at the carpet, occasionally at the door. Sometimes he lets his arm drop over the side of the bed and tries to focus on anything except Tony outside and what he’s just done. The thudding against his ribcage won’t let him forget.

 

The only thing he’s been able to tell is that Tony’s _just_ gotten through to May, a long time in on trying. He doesn’t want to listen to the conversation. What if May doesn’t believe him? What if she doesn’t want to? What if she says it’s his fault for not saying anything the first hundred times she asked? She’s probably a little mad. She _did_ ask him, several times. 

 

His mind falters. He knows it’s not that. She won’t get mad at him. That’s what scares him. It’s what she’ll think afterwards when she realises he’s ruined her life all over again before she even got the chance to get over the first time.

 

The door starts to open again, and this time he doesn’t pretend he’s asleep, just watches as Tony sighs and stands there, hands in his pocket ad he leans against the door frame, and Peter can only see half of him – can’t bring himself to look up.

 

Tony accommodates, rolling the study chair in front of him and sitting down on it, and he still has to lean down to be face-to-face. It looks uncomfortable.

 

He doesn’t want another talk, because it keeps making him cry, and he doesn’t want to do that anymore. What he’s done—he can’t reverse it. Everyone will know, and he can’t even think about it without feeling his throat sting from the tears coming anymore.

 

He looks up to Tony, eyes going glassy again, but at least it’s not as bad as it was two hours ago. He can hold it in, even though he really doesn’t want to, but crying over and over isn’t a great look, right?

 

“I told her to come home,” Tony says finally, and Peter breaks his gaze and goes back to staring at the carpet again. “I didn’t tell her,” he says. Peter already knows that.

 

He frowns and looks up again. He wants to ask _why not_ , but Tony’s already doing more than he needs to—more than he should. He doesn’t need to be hanging around here the whole day because of his existential crisis. 

 

“You want to?” Tony asks, softly and in a tone that says it’s completely fine if he doesn’t.

 

He shakes his head quickly, because he really does _not_ want to do that, ever. If he could’ve done it, he would’ve already instead of ending up in the situation that he was in. If it was up to him, in fact, and if Tony hadn’t shown up during the exact moment he did, he probably never would’ve, no matter how many times he told himself he would.

 

“No as in I should do it? Or no as we’re still trying to keep all of the on the down-low? Because the second option’s long gone by now, buddy.”

 

“I don’t want to,” he mumbles, half of the words disappearing into the pillow. 

 

Why does his chest still hurt? That’s not normal, right? Normally doesn’t happen, but today it is. 

 

Tony stands up, and Peter thinks maybe he’ll leave because he’s tired of Peter not speaking and being so difficult and _annoying_ but he rolls the chair back, and ends up on the floor in front of him. And now he can’t stare at the carpet anymore, because Mr Stark is where the carpet is. He feels so, _so_ bad.

 

He starts to shift, about to get up, “Mr Stark, you don’t have to—”

 

Tony tugs at his arm, gently pulling down again, “that black eye,” Tony says out of nowhere, and he wants to die. That’s one night he never wants to talk about along with most of his other interactions with Max. “Did he do that?”

 

His chest tightens, and he feels the waterworks again, blinks and buries his face more into the pillow with a slight curl of a fist. “Y’know they had a fight that day,” he says. “He only came to get his stuff and I thought—I thought he’d just leave and not come back, but he was talking so I—I talked back and—” _and the punch. Blinding of his eye, stinging, not being able to see straight, the hand—the hand wrapped around his neck and nails breaking the skin and he can’t move—_

 

“She even called,” he closes his eyes for two seconds when he blurts it out, “but he was saying ‘I’m helping him’ and his—his hands were—” his hands vaguely move to his neck, then suddenly feels the need to defend himself. “I would’ve—I would’ve done something, but I couldn’t see properly, and he just smashed the phone and I was just—I was—I was—”

 

Tony’s hand reaches for his hair, “scared. You were scared. That was all him.”

 

He doesn’t deny it, because it’s true. He was scared. Scared of an ordinary mean guy that he could defeat so easily if it were under literally any other circumstance. 

 

“People who do that to kids—It wasn’t anything you were doing,” Tony says to him, face morphing into defence-mode. “He’s a crazy person.” He rests his elbow on his knee and his head on his hand. He looks tired. _Tired of dealing with something that isn’t his problem._ “People like that—they don’t need something to tick them off. Alright? Anything and everything you did would’ve made him angry because of reasons that no sane person can comprehend.”

 

He believes him. But that’s his problem, right? He believes everything too easily and right now is a perfect example of how that screwed him up so very badly. 

 

Tony looks at a loss for words. He opens his mouth to say something, then sighs - leans back again, looking around aimlessly until his face scrunches up and he looks down at his hand, which is now holding something shiny in the air.

 

Metal. His lock. His _broken_ lock. It takes him another few seconds to frown, put two and two together and turn his head to the door.

 

“Pull the handle too hard?” Tony asks, rolling the metal between his fingers as he looks to the floor. Maybe an attempt to lighten the mood. But he _did_ do that once, in a moment of anger right in front of May and Mr Stark. They weren’t upset. Not too impressed either. Tony asks kindly, because it easily _could’ve_ been the aftermath of his rage just like it was that one time before, and in Tony’s eyes, it’s not a big deal, because that rage would be well-placed.

 

“I wasn’t the one who broke it,” he replies, then, partly to avoid the morphing of Tony’s face from somewhat relaxed into horror and partly because he feels useless just lying there, he gets up, running a hand over his face.

 

“He just came in and broke the damn lock?” Tony asks. He understands where the confusion comes from. _He just came in? What’s wrong with you? What were you doing? Just standing there, again?_

 

He shrugs, and suddenly feels so small and stupid. _So stupid_. “Wouldn’t—” he cuts himself off and shifts, sighing. “I mean—I don’t know why I opened it. He was outside yelling. Bad choice on my part, I guess. But to be fair, he had a—a freakin’ hammer in his hand, and y’know—” he shakes his shoulders a little too hard. “A hammer. And I didn’t think he brought it in for the lock and—” he looks up at the door frame.

 

“He’s—he’s a police officer—” his voice cracks. “He could’ve killed me right then and there, and I wouldn’t have moved an inch—and—and I was thinking about all the ways he’d cover it up instead of how I could stop him _then_ which is—” he scoffs, “—stupid. I’m that stupid guy in the horror movie that everyone’s yelling at who waits to—”

 

“Hey,” Tony snaps his fingers in front of him, as if he’s lost in a trance somewhere even though that’s not remotely the case. “He was a—a terrible person. You did the right thing.”

 

“It doesn’t feel right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that’s right. i’m BACK. And I’m going to finish this. 
> 
> The reason it took so long was because I just really hated writing this chapter. I spent sooo long on it and then the more I read it over the worse it read to me but I want to get past it so excuse the badness and we’ll be back on track🙃

**Author's Note:**

> that last scene in endgame didn’t happen (:


End file.
